Peace at Any Price
by Imorgen
Summary: As the Time War rages, the Celestial Intervention Agency's premiere spy is captured by the Time Agency and labeled a terrorist. Can the man born to be Captain Jack Harkness find it within himself to save her? A Time Agency/Time War tale
1. Temporal Anomaly

Author's Notes - This is the prequel to The Emissary that will explain exactly how Jack and Emma's timelines end up so twisted, although you certainly don't need to read The Emissary to understand Peace at Any Price. It revolves around the Time War, and is therefore of a much darker nature than my previous stories. However, I am doing my best to stick to a teen rating. Fair warning, though, war itself is brutal, and Emma's personal role in the Time War has been more ruthless than most. In the end, this is a story about personal redemption more than the brutality of war, and I hope you will give it a chance.

As always, I'd appreciate knowing what you think about my writing, good, bad or indifferent. If you're new to my stories, I hope you will give it a try, and if you've been waiting for an update on this series, I thank you for your patience!

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><p>The planet had been picturesque in its prime. She remembered it well from another lifetime. Emerald had been green and lush and full of old growth forests. Now, it was nothing more than scarred earth, its organic resources razed by the Daleks, who were currently using the planet as a staging ground for its troops.<p>

She stared at the Daleks' main encampment through her binoculars, dismissing the grotesque tin cans without a thought. Only the shimmering portal in the middle of her enemy's territory held her interest. It was something that shouldn't exist inside the time lock that trapped friend and foe alike in an absolute existence for the duration of this brutal war of attrition.

Brax had been right again, insufferable bastard. The Daleks were very close to breaking through the time lock. It wasn't the time travel aspect of the corridor that was worrisome. Time Lord and Dalek alike still had access to time travel and used it in horrific ways. No, it was the fact that this time corridor had been built upon the remains of an older one, a gateway that pre-dated the time lock itself. Activated, this particular corridor could piggyback upon the old pathway, allowing the Daleks to attack the same causal nexus more than once, chancing a paradox big enough to wipe the universe from existence.

Squatting in the dirt, Emma tugged at her ponytail as she searched in vain for a solution that didn't involve suicide. Not that the thought of suicide bothered her anymore. She'd committed enough atrocities during her two hundred eighty-five years of fighting to convince her that death would be a welcome relief from the nightmares that plagued her.

She had long ago become a killer, using her knowledge of the lesser species to infiltrate countless worlds. A whispered word to a paranoid dictator, the kidnapping of a sultan's daughter, a bribe to the right official—she'd caused more apocalypses on more planets than she wished to remember, all in the name of the greater good. And, in her dreams, she relived each and every one.

These were the times when she wished she could be a proper soldier, manning a Battle TARDIS and flying into the face of the enemy. But, she'd never been a soldier. No, she was far worse. She was a spy.

Shaking herself out of her introspection, she rummaged through her backpack. She dispassionately contemplated her options as she took a long sip from a bottle of tepid water. According to the readings she'd taken, the time corridor was functional. The bulk of their troops were waiting in neat rows for orders to invade wherever and whenever the tunnel would take them.

She'd decided to foist it all off on Irving Braxiatel, her bond brother and leader of the Celestial Intervention Agency, when a red Command Dalek appeared on the edge of the camp. Shit. Its presence changed everything. The soldiers would not be waiting in passive rows for much longer. Suicide it was, then.

Hoping her perception filter would work long enough to pass the Dalek troops, Emma dropped the water bottle and grabbed two fisssion grenades from her backpack. She felt an unexpected pang of regret for all she had lost as she jogged determinately towards her target. Quietly, she moved past the rows of waiting killing machines. Activating the first fission grenade, she abandoned caution and ran the last ten yards towards her target. She took them all by surprise, jumping into the time conduit as the first grenade detonated behind her.

Shunted from one time and place to another, she could feel the massive explosion radiate outward. Radiation engulfed her, damaging her cells to the point that her body began to fail. Brutally pushing that perception aside, she concentrated on the rapidly approaching white light at the end of the psychedelic tunnel, activating the second grenade even as she was forcefully ejected onto hard concrete.

She didn't have time to take in her surroundings. For some strange reason, she had not yet died. Instinctively, she ran, making it almost twenty-five yards before the second grenade collapsed this end of the time conduit and engulfed everything around her in a blinding flash of power. The only thing that kept her body from being incinerated on the spot was the towering concrete wall she had ducked behind moments before the explosion.

The forces she'd unleashed, however, were too much for the structural integrity of the wall in question. It fell like a domino onto the shell of a building some ten feet away. Emma was trapped between the two in an open space only four feet tall as chunks of debris rained upon her already dying body.

It hardly registered. She could feel the surge of regeneration taking over, but was too weary to fight it. As she exploded in a golden light, she could only hope to be overlooked in the rubble.

* * *

><p>Emma woke not quite knowing who or where she was. The bare, gray walls nearby didn't provide any clues, so she sat up in an attempt to see beyond the confines of her tiny cell. Her hearts began to pound when comprehension finally caught up to her observation. Rassilon, she was in a cell. That couldn't be good.<p>

A peculiar tightness suddenly gripped her stomach to make its way up her chest and out her throat. Opening her mouth, she was stunned to see a burst of golden energy lazily float in front of her before wafting to the ground. She had no time to contemplate the odd occurrence, however. Six men in white coats abruptly appeared beside her, pulling her unwillingly into a much larger room. As she glared at them all, they strapped her firmly to the metal table upon which she had been roughly thrown. She felt a sting on her arm and then the rush of a foreign substance as it raced through her bloodstream. As it carried her away to nothingness, she couldn't help but wonder what the hell had she gotten herself into.

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><p>"Fuck, Six, you just had to mouth off to the higher ups, didn't you? Forty-one's dead. Who cares what killed him?"<p>

Time Agent Sixty-Nine drolly looked up at his sometime partner, Agent Ninety-Six. The wiry man with the bleached blonde hair was the closest thing he had to a friend in his fucked up life, but at the moment, his slightly psychotic lover was definitely not in a friendly mood.

"Obviously not the Agency," he answered with a flippant grin. "Doesn't matter. In another six months I'll be reinstated, and we can go back into the field. Management knows we make a good team."

"Hell, you're arrogant. Do you really think I'll wait that long for you?"

That earned the man a devilish smirk. "I'm the best and you know it. In every way, I might add."

Hungrily, the blonde man sought to possess the other's mouth. After a few seconds of harshly fighting for dominance, he abruptly pulled back. Two guards had entered the cell; visiting hours were over.

"You're the most arrogant man I've ever met, Sixty-Nine, but you are the best. I'll be waiting." With that, he strode out of the tiny room, cursing his partner's penchant for being much too honest for his own good.

Bored once again, Sixty-Nine deliberately rattled the chains that attached him to the concrete wall of his cell as he recalled just how he had come to be in his latest predicament. He had made a gross error of judgment when he had openly mentioned the possibility that Agent Forty-One had been killed by Daleks. But what else could he have said? Nothing left its victims' insides liquefied quite like a Dalek particle beam, and nothing ever would.

The fact that the Daleks had disappeared over two hundred years ago was inconsequential. Logically, they were the only plausible explanation. However, his superiors had vigorously disagreed. As soon as he had voiced his opinion, he had been officially reprimanded and transferred to Time Agency Headquarters on Tempus Tor.

His desk job had lasted a week before his supervisor had caught him in a three-way with a new recruit and his lovely friend. Unfortunately for him, the agent's friend should have died on the Grand Lusitania in 2257. Agent One-Four-Eight had whisked her away from a watery grave for the express purpose of making her his personal sex slave.

Without the mockery of a trial, One-Four-Eight had been summarily executed for tampering with time for personal gain. The buxom woman had been promptly returned to her proper timeline to die with the rest of the ill-named ship's passengers. And, he had been exceedingly lucky.

After some very fast talking and even faster sex, his supervisor had been convinced that he had acted in ignorance. He managed to get off with a slap on the wrist, at least in Time Agency terms. He was currently serving a standard year sentence at the penal colony on Tuem for aiding and abetting a temporal crime.

The first six months had been almost pleasant. The guards had been bored and easy to please. He'd been listed as nonviolent, so it had been simple to bribe them with fantastic sex in return for better food, varied activities and decent accommodations. Unfortunately, all of that had come to a screeching halt two weeks ago. The newly appointed prison warden didn't possess the lackadaisical attitude of his predecessor. Sixty-Nine was once again an unwilling guest in a bleak, square cell.

If something didn't happen soon, he was afraid that he would die from the monotony, his lover's infrequent visits notwithstanding. His two meals came at the exact same time every day, consisting of the exact same rubbery portion of protein, a small mound of an unidentifiable green leafy vegetable, and a mashed lump of carbohydrate that was almost inedible. No entertainment was provided, and he spent most of his time in solitary confinement, wondering why the Time Agency was so testy when it came to the subject of Daleks.

It came as a complete shock, therefore, when the door to his cell opened again that afternoon, and a young woman barely out of adolescence was pushed inside. She looked around uncomprehendingly, her pale green eyes glassy and dazed. As the force field around the entryway reactivated with a sharp crackle, she sank unceremoniously to the floor. Her hands instantly wrapped around her knees, which she pulled to her chest in an effort to make herself smaller.

Sixty-Nine grabbed his bottle of water, intending to offer it to his new cellmate. Before he could, however, the force field dropped once again. The new warden, a humorless Judoon, ducked through the opening. His expressionless features were impossible to read, but the warden did not keep them in suspense for long.

As gruff and stilted as only a Judoon could be, he barked out an explanation. "Prisoner Six-Five-Seven-Four-Three. Designation: Time Agent. Number: Sixty-Nine. Incarcerated for aiding and abetting a temporal crime. Sentence term: One standard Earth year. Prisoner will assist with interrogation of temporal anomaly, designation, Prisoner Six-Seven-Three-One-Three."

Completely flummoxed, the aforementioned Time Agent hastily stood, although the Judoon still towered over him. "What do you mean by temporal anomaly? She looks pretty ordinary to me."

As an aside, he offered her a quick apology for disparaging her lovely form, but it appeared that his fellow prisoner wasn't aware of his presence. The Judoon ignored the woman sitting not two feet away as he continued his explanation.

"Prisoner Six-Seven-Three-One-Three. Classification: Temporal Anomaly. Species: Unknown. Planet of origin: Unknown. Background temporal radiation: Exceeds measureable limits. Prisoner convicted of terrorism. Execution scheduled for twenty-one standard days. Prisoner Six-Five-Seven-Four-Three to be executed concurrently if temporal anomaly does not speak."

"No pressure there," he remarked with a cynical smirk. Why the hell had he been complaining about monotony? Monotony was good. Monotony didn't get you killed.

"Wait a minute," he argued hotly, hoping to appeal to the Judoon's sense of justice. "You can't execute me. I'm here on a misdemeanor. I've got five and a half more months and then I can resume my duties at the Agency."

"Charge of aiding and abetting temporal crime: Class Five Misdemeanor. Charge of treason against the Time Agency: Capital offense. Execution scheduled for twenty-one days. Sentence commuted if temporal anomaly speaks."

The Judoon exited the cell before he could protest against the trumped up charge of treason. After angrily kicking the wall, Agent Sixty-Nine realized that he still held the bottle of water. Not knowing what else to do, he crouched beside the woman who suddenly held his fate in her hands.

Her eyes remained unfocused, and he wondered which drugs the Time Agency had pumped into her during their initial interrogation. She wore a thin, shapeless hospital gown that completely exposed her back. The small amount of her skin that didn't sport yellow, purple or green bruises was pale in an unhealthy way. Her face was angular to the point of being severe, and he couldn't help but think she'd look much better if she were a stone heavier. Her auburn hair was natural (a rarity in this sector), but it was dull and greasy.

It was her age, however, that shocked him to the core. She was much too young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen Earth standard years. How could someone that young be so steeped in artron energy that the Agency couldn't measure it? And what act had she committed to be labeled a terrorist by the Time Agency? Knowing he wouldn't find out those answers anytime soon, he offered her the bottle of water.

"Here, doll, you need this more than me right now."

But, her eyes stayed fixed on some point near the far wall, and she made no move to accept what he had offered. Shrugging to himself, he set the water beside her and carefully backed away. There was no reason to frighten her more than she already was by forcing her to drink. Feigning disinterest, he settled on the other side of the cell, pretending to play a solitary game of chess. All the while, he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

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><p>Emma hugged her knees to her chest, taking in her new accommodations without a word. She remembered waking up on a hard metal table, but her life before that was jumbled like a pile of puzzle pieces waiting to be sorted. She occasionally caught glimpses of people in her mind. Most evoked a feeling of warmth; others brought tears to her eyes. Try as she might, however, she could not give a single one a name.<p>

That discovery might have distressed her more if she knew her own name. She had been asked that particular question many times in many different ways since waking up on cold steel, but each time she had stayed silent. She had, in fact, not spoken at all during her captivity.

At first, she had been reluctant to speak, as if she were afraid to hear the sound of her own voice. Then, when she couldn't shake the certainty that answering the questions would be a very bad idea, she had chosen not to talk. It was the first conscious decision she had made since becoming self-aware, and for some strange reason it gave her an enormous sense of pride.

Pride had been her only solace when the so-called medical testing had begun. After four days, twenty-two hours, fifty-eight minutes and forty-two seconds, the only thing her captors had learned was that she might not talk, but she could scream. Washing their hands of her, they had pumped her full of drugs, tried one last ditch effort at interrogation, and then handed her over to the extremely sour Judoon in an unmistakable sign of defeat.

She was vaguely aware of a conversation taking place, but it took too much effort to listen. It was far easier to sit and let her mind wander. Disconnected from her body, she couldn't feel the aches of her injuries or the pain of forced starvation. In point of fact, the foreign chemicals pulsing through her bloodstream brought her much needed peace. It was easy to encourage them to work their insidious design, which is precisely what she did.


	2. The Seventh Day

Author's Notes - Thanks to ceeare for reviewing. I hope everyone else will like this story as well. If you've read any of my previous stories, you'll notice that I'm changing the point of view somewhat. Instead of the omnescient narrator, I'm alternating points of view between Emma and Jack. Let me know if it works or is really annoying.

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><p>The girl—woman—hadn't touched the water by the time a taciturn guard placed the usual evening ration in his cell. He looked down at the solitary tray. It contained no more and no less than it ever had. The imprisoned Time Agent jumped up to protest at the man's retreating back.<p>

"Hey! There's two of us in here now. You might want to consider that when you're dishing up supper."

Surprisingly, the toady Graske turned around, chuckling like he had made a very funny joke. "She'll get a ration when she talks, not before."

Before Sixty-Nine could protest again, the guard retreated down the wide corridor. Sitting on the ground near the single tray, he looked at it in disgust. After the day's events, he wasn't hungry anyway. He could be magnanimous and let his cellmate eat it. Maybe she'd be more willing to speak if he did something nice for her.

This time, he was determined to grab her attention. She hadn't so much as looked at the water bottle that afternoon, and he worried that the girl—woman—was in shock. Deliberately putting his right hand on her bare arm, he became instantly concerned. She was freezing. Why hadn't he noticed it earlier?

As he firmly tilted her head towards him, she gave no indication that she was aware of him at all. Studying her eyes, he noted that her pupils were no more than pinpricks in a sea of aquamarine. Highly suspicious, he gently pried open her mouth and sniffed. It was as he feared; her breath smelled of sweet cherries. Putting his fingers to the pulse point on her throat, he felt an odd, unsteady rhythm, and did his best not to panic.

Serum Y79 was the only drug in the Time Agency arsenal that left such a distinct odor in the mouth. Taken from the pancreas of a marsupial indigenous to Grenalth, the drug was the most potent truth serum ever discovered. It was said to be impossible to resist, but it was only used in extreme circumstances since it killed almost twenty percent of those exposed to it.

Laying the unresponsive girl onto the ground, he put his head on her chest to better hear the beating of her heart. It took him almost a minute to realize that he was listening to the beating of two hearts, one on the right side of her chest and one on her left. His amazement was tempered by the fact that her heart rate was steadily decreasing. No matter how her body worked, he couldn't believe that was a good sign. Nor was the blue tint to her lips.

Fumbling in the pocket of his navy jumpsuit, he found one of the stimulant packets he had earned as payment for several revolting foot massages he had provided to an arthritic Yeti when his guards had been more appreciative of his natural born talents. Tearing it open with his teeth, he dumped it into the water and gave the bottle a good shake. Then, he took the girl in his arms and forced the mixture down her throat, swallow by agonizingly slow swallow.

By the time he had finished, her hearts were beating in a steady rhythm. He wasn't sure if the pace was normal, but he rationalized that it had to be better than it was. At least, he was confident that they would not slow to the point of stopping anymore.

Taking one last, regretful look at his plate, he pulled the blanket off the narrow bed. Propping himself up against the wall, he wrapped her snuggly in the warm fleece before pulling her to his lap. She was still frightfully cold, and he didn't want to lose her to pneumonia after saving her from the side effects of the truth serum. He spent the next several hours listening to the sound of her breathing as he rhythmically stroked her cheek.

Throughout the long night, he emphatically told himself that he hadn't saved her out of some misguided attempt at nobility. The actions he had taken had been pure selfishness on his part. It was likely that the Agency would execute him as an example if the girl did not live long enough to tell her secrets. And, he didn't think he'd be able to talk his executioners out of killing him this time.

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><p>"Here, Red, just one little bite. You need to eat."<p>

Obediently, Emma opened up, and a small piece of protein was placed on her tongue. Intrigued by the flavor, she pressed the morsel against the roof of her mouth, waiting for the chalky substance to dissolve. She'd had much worse, she suddenly remembered; although the specifics of that knowledge slipped through her mind like the wind through dark red grass.

She managed to eat seven bites before she glanced down at her hands. Food was forgotten as she stared in bewilderment at her supple, slender fingers. Something was different, but she couldn't quite grasp what it was. Vaguely, she tried to remember.

A soft voice jolted her out of her introspection.

"Zoning out on me again, Ginger? Lucky for you, I'm a very patient guy. You really should finish your protein today."

She allowed him to place another piece on her tongue, gradually coming to the realization that he had been doing much the same for the last five meals. For the first time, his actions intrigued her. Calmly, she looked up to discover who had bothered to care for her in such a depressing place.

Human, her mind instantly supplied. Handsome, male, it added unnecessarily. Even with the deprivations of captivity, his appearance was neat and tidy. More importantly, he was solid, built of muscle instead of fat.

For several seconds, she gazed into his eyes. They were mesmerizing, a dazzling blue that beckoned her further in. It would be so easy to drown in that sapphire sea, to sink her mind into his simple brain. Perhaps he knew who she was. She could blow his defenses as easily as blowing a mote of dust across a polished table. She could rip and tear and—

She was a telepath. On the heels of that shocking discovery, she harshly berated herself. What the hell she had been thinking? No matter what his motivations, the human had cared for her and fed her. Ripping his mind apart in the vain hope of learning more about her identity was malicious and ungrateful.

Ashamed, she cast her eyes downward, refusing to eat any more of the food he offered. That night, she slept alone huddled in a corner of the cell. No matter how much her cellmate reached out to her, she pointedly ignored him.

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><p>Frustration and anger surged through the incarcerated Time Agent as he tried in vain to engage the girl. He had been so close! For the first time, she had appeared lucid, but had retreated again into her shell. In those brief moments, however, he had learned much.<p>

She was intelligent; her eyes had been filled with gratitude and then calculation. Though, there had been something lurking behind her expression that had prickled his sense of self-preservation. And, then, inexplicably, she had looked ashamed, which he didn't understand.

After three and a half days of observing his odd cellmate, he was beginning to fear that she did not possess knowledge of a language to speak. For all he knew, she had been raised by feral wolves, for the only sounds he had heard coming from her mouth were the screams and sobs of her all too frequent nightmares.

The previous night, her terror had been loud enough to alert the guards. Lingering, they had watched in wicked amusement as she shrieked until her throat was too raw to continue. Her display had excited one of the men, who let down the force field with the intention of making her scream some more.

His resulting sore stomach was proof that he was going soft, in both body and mind. He should have just let them have their fun with her. It wasn't as if she would have voiced any objections. But some lingering sense of decency had briefly possessed him, and he had stepped in front of her, his meaning clear. He'd been roughed up for his efforts, although the guards had spent so much time using his stomach as a punching bag that they hadn't had time to touch her. So, he guessed it was a win-win all around.

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><p>On the seventh day of her captivity, Emma woke with a start. As she tried to catch the fleeting edge of her dream, she studied her surroundings with ill-concealed derision. It was certainly more civilized than a few of the prisons she had previously inhabited, but she would have preferred the more primitive conditions. At least tied up in a wooden shack there was a decent chance of escape. Here, without her backpack, she couldn't hope to walk through the door without an authorization key.<p>

Staring down at her hands, she yearned for a mirror. She had no inkling as to the appearance of her new regeneration. The skin she could see was creamy and flawless, apart from the lingering bruises. Her hair was a long, tangled auburn mess, but with some attention she guessed it would be attractive enough. Running her hands over her torso, she realized that she was shapely, but much too thin, even with her delicate bone structure. Abruptly, she remembered that she hadn't been fed for the first few days of her captivity, and the man who had taken to feeding her shared his meager rations. She was surprised she wasn't emaciated. What would Flavia say when she finally saw her?

Flavia! She remembered now. Brax had sent her out on a reconnaissance mission that had gone horribly wrong. At least she had managed to destroy the time corridor. Though, recalling her mission only heightened her unease. Was she now outside the time lock? Would the CIA try to find her, or had they already given her up for dead?

It would have been better if she had died, she grimly acknowledged. So far, the Celestial Intervention Agency had managed to keep the Time Agency ignorant of the Time War, but that could change if the idiots discovered to which species she belonged. She could well imagine a mercenary Time Agent accidently creating a paradox wide enough to obliterate reality while trying to assist them, or worse, doing the same on purpose in service of the Daleks.

It was paramount that she remain an enigma, and she silently thanked Rassilon that her regeneration sickness had been severe enough to render her mute in the early days of her imprisonment. She could use that to her advantage. While Time Lords were considered a myth, the legends which did exist were certain about one thing. Time Lords liked to talk; she had the D—the General—to thank for that. For now, silence was her best weapon.

Glancing up at the narrow bed, Emma studied the man who had been uncommonly kind to her. She knew he childishly answered to Agent Sixty-Nine, but she didn't expect anything else from a Time Agent. They were notoriously immature, irresponsible and highly corruptible. Why the High Council tolerated their existence was a mystery.

Still, he had a certain degree of potential, she finally decided. He had fed her and had defended her from the guards on the occasion when their captors had seen her as nothing more than a helpless female. Whether he did it out of common decency or had an agenda of his own was irrelevant. Not that she could trust him any more than the others, but it was nice to know someone in this hellhole hadn't thrown his humanity entirely out the window.

When he slept through the appearance of their morning ration, she decided to satisfy her curiosity. Picking up the tray, she saw it contained a serving of protein, carbohydrate and vegetable. The portion was skimpy for one, let alone two, but she distinctly remembered being fed twice the day before and was determined that he not starve himself on her account. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she carefully shook him awake.

His left arm shot out from underneath the thin blanket to tighten painfully around her throat. Struggling to suck air into her lungs, she was absurdly disappointed. She must be quite short for him to manage such a thing. As soon as his eyes opened, he released his hold. She used her free hand to rub her sore neck.

"Shit!"

Sitting up, he took the tray off her lap, placing it at the foot of the bed. Chagrinned, he rested one hand on her shoulder while he examined her. Her neck would bruise, but no lasting harm had been done.

"You okay, sweetheart? I didn't expect you to wake me up like that. You must be feeling better today, huh? You look a lot better at any rate. Sorry about your neck. Like I said, it's not a good idea to touch me when I'm sleeping, but I guess you know that now. You want something to eat?"

As he spoke to her in an even, soothing voice, she realized he was using his tone and touch to convey his intent more than the words themselves. While he talked, he stroked her cheek, as one might a child or pet, although there was no condescension in his gaze. She didn't take offense at his touch. In fact, she found it strangely mesmerizing.

Only one other had touched her like that since the war had begun. He had been noble and witty and devilishly handsome. But she had loved him for his optimism most of all. Funny, how she could admit only now that it had been love. She had deluded herself for so long, obtusely mistaking her feelings for respect. It mattered little. She had cut out his heart for the greater good, turning a hero into a villain, a saint into a sinner. The guilt of that was enough to make her weep.

Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, her cellmate gave her an encouraging smile. "How about some food? I bet you're hungry. I know I am. I don't know how much you can understand, but I'm really sorry for hurting you. I won't do it again. You have my word, such as it is right now."

With a rueful laugh, he handed her the tray as he got up to make use of the facilities. Keeping her head bent to give him what privacy she could, Emma stared at the food as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

She had long denied herself any form of comfort. It was her only nod to absolution. But, certainly, she could accept it now, when it would soon no longer matter? It was only logical to appreciate kindness, no matter the source. Gratitude was a natural emotional response for the things he had done for her. Humans had always been tactile beings, and there was nothing wrong with accepting comfort when offered. Besides, she would likely be dead—permanently—from Time Agency interrogation tactics soon, anyway.

With that cheery thought, she waited for his return, ready to play the charade to the bitter end. There was no logical reason for him to starve himself on her account, however. When he sat down beside her, she deliberately placed the tray on his lap.

"You want me to feed you like before?"

Scooping up a bit of the carbohydrate with his fingers, he gently placed it against her lips. She took his offering with good grace, wondering if he was that dense or being deliberately thick. Before he could feed her again, however, she had pinched off a large piece of the protein and mirrored his gesture, lightly pressing her fingers against his mouth.

Surprised and intrigued, he ate the proffered bite and then scooped up another portion of the carbohydrate to offer her. In this manner, they ate every scrap of food on the single tray. Their stomachs were left only partially satisfied, but both their curiosities had been piqued.

Genuinely smiling now, he handed her the water bottle. "That's the best breakfast I've had in ages, sweet cheeks. You should drink this, and I'll refill it in the sink for me."

She did as he requested, hesitantly returning his smile. While she was determined not to speak, that didn't mean she had to act like a zombie for the entire time, either. There was no reason to be antagonistic towards him when he was her only possible ally at the moment.

If anything, his grin grew wider, and he rested his hand easily on her shoulder. "You really are feeling better, aren't you? I'm called Sixty-Nine, which is a stupid name, I know, but we use so many aliases at the Agency that they give us numbers instead of names. Doesn't bother me, I guess. My name's better forgotten anyway. Sorry we're having to share a cell at the moment. They think you'll talk sooner that way. Personally, I don't think you can talk, or you would have said something after your nightmares. In case I'm wrong, though, you might want to start. The Time Agency has us both scheduled for execution in nineteen days if you don't, and frankly, I'd rather avoid that if at all possible."

She gave no indication that she understood his speech, preferring to use her silence to her best advantage. She felt a distant pang of remorse when she realized that she would ultimately be responsible for his death, too. However, she no longer pretended that she was anything more than a killer, and the thought that she would be soon free of such a heavy burden brought her a sense of profound relief.

He continued his cheerful soliloquy as she slowly sipped from the water bottle. By the time he had finished, she had learned more than she could have ever hoped. He was the first Time Agent to ever have been recruited from the Boeshane Peninsula. His on and off again partner was slightly psychotic, but fast with a blaster and even faster with a sword. The Time Agency had put him here as punishment for unwittingly interfering with a fixed point in time. (The thought had chilled her blood until he had explained the circumstances. It seemed he was culpable of nothing more than an inability to keep his pants on.) Most importantly, he had revealed that all evidence pointed to the fact that at least one Dalek had mysteriously reappeared after vanishing over two hundred years ago.

It had taken every ounce of her self-control to remain impassive as he explained the circumstances of the other Time Agent's death. Privately, she had to agree with his assessment. Nothing liquefied the organs quite like a Dalek particle beam. At least one Dalek, if not more, had travelled through the time corridor before her arrival on Emerald. Incarcerated as she was, there was nothing she could do to prevent a scouting party from wreaking havoc with the timeline. For once, she would have to hope that the Time Agency could handle a crisis. That particular thought threatened to trigger an anxiety attack. Springing from the bed, she agitatedly paced in a rough triangle as she fought to control her breathing.

All too soon, she was trembling with fatigue. The presence of so much radiation during the regeneration process had left her in a weakened state, and the lack of nutrients during the critical first forty-eight hours had not helped matters. Even if she wasn't slated for death, she could sense that this regeneration was destined to be woefully brief. Staggering to a wall, she leaned heavily against the cool concrete, hoping that the black spots dancing in front of her eyes would simply disappear.

* * *

><p>Drinking his water, the imprisoned Time Agent quietly watched his mysterious cellmate work herself into a frenzy. He had no idea what had triggered such a response. One minute, she had been sitting docilely next to him, and the next, she was pacing with the desperation of a caged tiger. After fifteen minutes of such restless activity, she was visibly trembling. Only a few seconds later, she wobbled to the wall, where she gave every indication that she was either going to faint or be sick.<p>

When her knees buckled, he grabbed her before she could hit the hard floor. "Let's get you back to bed, Ginger. I don't think either one of us is up for calisthenics at the moment."

His hands wrapped around her bare skin, unintentionally cupping her breasts. The thin gown she wore gapped so much that it merely gave the illusion of clothing. Again, he noted the coolness of her body and decided her normal temperature must be a degree or two lower than his. At least, he hoped it was.

Before he could apologize and rearrange his grip, she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest. Her soft sigh couldn't be taken as anything other than contentment, and if he hadn't been so astonished, he might have made some wisecrack about the allure of his pheromones. Instead, he artfully turned his hold into a caress.

"You're full of surprises today, aren't you, sweetheart?"

Nestling her nose into his chest, she reminded him of a kitten readying herself for a nap. Her tremors slowly subsided, and her breathing eventually evened as he let his hands roam up and down her curves. After a few minutes, though, he chuckled wryly to himself. She had, in fact, fallen asleep standing up.

Half dragging her to the bed, he decided that getting her to talk was going to be ridiculously easy. She already trusted him far too much. Planning a slow seduction and quick betrayal, he cocooned himself around her, somehow fitting them both on the narrow, thin mattress. With thoughts of an early release in the forefront of his mind, it wasn't long before he was as tranquil as she.


	3. Toying with Emotions

Author's Note - Thanks to ceeare for reviewing. I'm glad the POV is working. This is still set in the Time Agency prison, so a warning for violence, etc.

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><p>"Enjoying your pet?"<p>

Instantly alert, Agent Sixty-Nine jerked upright, turning towards the familiar voice. Recognizing the speaker, he allowed a leering grin to suffuse his face. "She's definitely more attractive than the guards."

"No doubt," his partner replied with a smirk.

Taking note of the fact that Ninety-Six was dressed in his official uniform, complete with weapons both visible and concealed, the prisoner chose the direct approach. Besides, subtlety wasn't something the blond man understood.

"You want to fuck me while wearing your uniform? Thought you got enough of that during the time loop."

"This isn't a conjugal visit," his sometime friend snapped. You've had almost three full days with our enigmatic little terrorist, and you haven't put much effort into getting her to talk. You didn't even bother having her after giving her a good grope this morning. What's wrong with you, Six? Being in here six months addled that big brain of yours?"

Firmly reigning in his temper, he made a joke of it, but there was a nasty edge to his voice. "I didn't know you cared, Nine. And, I certainly didn't know you were into voyeurism. I could have constructed some entertaining scenarios if I had."

For once, the blonde ignored the sexual allusion. "You wouldn't be joking around if you knew where the Agency found her, Six. She was inside the kill zone of an atomic blast, only several hundred meters away from the remnants of what the theoretical physicists say was a temporal transporter."

The shock on his face must have registered, because his former partner gave him a full minute to digest that fact. If true, such a device would revolutionize temporal mechanics, not to mention upset the balance of power in the Milky Way. While the Vortex Manipulator was capable of transporting the wearer and possibly a few others, a temporal transporter could theoretically transport an army. It wasn't difficult to understand the ramifications of that development. The fact that it had been discovered on Earth itself was even more alarming.

Begrudgingly, he admitted his ignorance. "The Judoon neglected to tell me. He was more interested in threatening me with execution if I didn't make her talk. Hell, I'm not even sure she can talk. All I've heard from her is screaming."

"I would have thought that having that gorgeous ass of yours on the firing line might have made you a little more persuasive."

Standing in order to press his height advantage, Jack defensively crossed his arms. His partner never did understand subtly, and he knew it would be futile to try to explain that he had been priming the prisoner to speak all along.

"Yeah, well, you can't get water out of sand, and she was so drugged up that she would have died without my help. I've got time yet. What's the rush?"

The other man momentarily looked uncomfortable, and Sixty-Nine realized he had struck a nerve.

"Twenty-Two found three former agents dead about a mile from the kill zone. All of them had gone freelance in the last year, if you get my drift. Their insides had been liquefied the same way as Forty-One. It can't be a coincidence, and the higher-ups are getting impatient. She's the key to the killings; she had to be."

He filed the startling information away for later contemplation. It was too much to take in at once. Looking down at the young woman, he watched as she frowned in her sleep. Automatically, he stroked her cheek, and her face relaxed once again.

"You think she killed them? Did they find any weapons on her body?"

The resulting sneer was directed at the Time Agency hierarchy, and he was very grateful that his lover's expression wasn't meant for him. He'd seen that look of annoyance in the blonde's eyes on more than one occasion. It usually resulted in someone's painful death. This time, Ninety-Six could only rant.

"Whatever they found, they're not sharing it, stupid pricks. Information about her case is locked up tighter than a Silurian's ass. I only got my orders yesterday. From now on, I'm officially in charge of her interrogation. And, I'm telling you that you'd better screw her and get it out of your system so you can focus on getting her to talk. I'm sick and tired of having to watch you play the hero whenever you meet some pathetic urchin you think's gotten a raw deal. When the hell are you going to learn that life isn't fucking fair?"

His jaw clenched in anger. Just because he didn't try to use everyone he came across as his very own slave or pleasure toy didn't mean he played the hero. He had no intention of dying on Tuem, and was doing his best to gain her trust. However, he had a growing suspicion that his efforts were wasted on someone who didn't understand Galactic Standard at all.

"I told you, I don't think she can speak. And, this morning aside, I doubt she's willing to have sex and talk out of gratitude even if she could. If she's as bad as you say, she's got to know the Agency's going to kill her either way."

The wiry blonde's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he reminded Jack of a venomous snake waiting to strike. "Who said she had to be willing?"

The two men engaged in a glaring contest for several seconds before Ninety-Six erupted into a feral grin. "Fine, you play nice with her. I've always preferred playing nasty, myself. Maybe she'll be so glad to get away from me that she'll happily spill her guts for you."

Since that fit in precisely with his plan, he didn't protest as his partner abruptly yanked the girl up by her tangled hair. She woke with a squeak, rolling over so quickly that she was able to take her attacker by surprise. Grabbing his right wrist, she applied enough pressure on specific nerves to make him howl with pain. But, the agent was as deft with his left hand as his right, and she soon found a very sharp dirk pressed painfully at her throat.

Sixty-Nine watched the ensuing standoff with interest. The young woman suddenly acted as stubborn and prideful as any terrorist might. As blood trickled down her neck, he keenly studied her eyes. There was nothing vague in her expression now. Her irises appeared darker, almost emerald, and they were completely focused on Ninety-Six's face, as if she could cow him with a glance.

A shiver ran down his spine. For the first time, he could believe that she was a killer. There was something dark and predatory lurking in her gaze. While she might appear to be young and innocent, a palpable aura of menace belied that image.

Then she blinked, and the sensation was gone like it had never been. All he could see was a frightened young woman, her eyes welling with tears. The girl's hand went slack, releasing her hold on the Time Agent's wrist. Ninety-Six responded by backhanding her so forcefully that her head collided against the concrete wall with a resounding clunk. Not giving her time to recover, he hauled her off the bed and dragged her out of the cell.

The Chief Interrogator didn't return with the girl until the evening ration had been delivered. Sixty-Nine regarded her critically, noting that her skin was unmarred by cuts or bruises, including the bruises around her neck he himself had given her. Outwardly, she might appear uninjured, but she walked with a careful, shuffling gate, a clear indication of pain. Her eyes confirmed his suspicions. They were as dull and lifeless as her filthy hair.

"Does the warden know you used the tissue regenerator?"

It seemed the Chief Interrogator was not in the mood for questions. Roughly, he shoved the girl to the ground before barking at his partner. "Shut up, Sixty-Nine, or I'll use it on you, too. Stupid techno-geeks made me quit just because one of her hearts stopped beating. If I had been allowed to finish, I'm sure she would have talked."

"If you'd been allowed to finish, we'd all be dead," he snapped, hating how much sympathy for his cellmate his partner's words had evoked. "You do remember that the Time Agency signed the Shadow Accords, don't you? I'm sure there's something in there about the illegality of torturing prisoners to death."

"Semantics," he snapped back. "By definition, torture damages the prisoner. As long as I heal her before sending her back here, there's no proof that she was damaged. Besides, it's not like she's going to complain to anyone. She'd be signing her own death warrant."

The raven-haired agent suppressed a curse. After the tentative success he'd had with charming the girl, his dimwitted partner had just taken away any incentive she had to talk. Was it truly that difficult to make him understand the complexities of good cop/bad cop?

Before he could make another snide comment, the wiry blonde pulled him into a kiss.

"Your turn. Frankly, I plan on enjoying your interrogation much more than hers. I have a torture of a different sort planned for you."

It was all Sixty-Nine could do not to gag, but years of practice kept the rakish grin on his face. He was definitely too angry at the so-called Chief Interrogator to be in the mood. Still, he went willingly enough. He'd learned how to fake pleasure at the age of fourteen when he'd started selling his body to put food in his mother's mouth. And, no one was more skilled at faking it than he.

Sauntering back to his cell some six hours later, Agent Sixty-Nine had to admit the payment for his services had been more than reasonable. He had been given a proper meal, the first one he'd had since the inflexible Judoon had taken over the prison. The orst had been tender and flavorful, the tubers had been roasted with rosemary and olive oil, and the spinach had been perfectly wilted. There'd even been a box of hypervodka infused chocolate, which he and Ninety-Six had consumed for dessert. All in all, it had been worth a few hours of painful tedium.

As he jauntily thanked his guards for escorting him home, he noticed that his cellmate hadn't moved in his absence. Once again, her eyes were fixed on some imaginary spot on the wall, and her knees were pulled to her chest. Their evening ration remained untouched on the bed next to their coarse, wool blanket. Rapidly losing his good mood, he realized that it was time to do some damage control.

Crouching before her, he gently stroked her cheek. "Hey, cupcake, you need to eat. Whatever happened this afternoon, you're safe now."

It took several minutes of patient coaxing, but eventually, she raised her head. When her gaze finally met his, he swallowed thickly. Her coppery green eyes were completely guileless and far too innocent. He'd only seen that level of trust once before, in the eyes of an abandoned puppy he'd found at the space port on Boeshane. Try as he might, he had been unable to nurse the neglected animal back to health, and had eventually been forced to put it out of its misery. His stomach churned at the memory.

His cheery grin faltered to be replaced by a more compassionate expression. Carefully, he pushed a mass of tangled hair out of her face. When she didn't react, he gripped her lightly by the arm and led her to the narrow bed. Wordlessly, he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders (no one had yet provided her with proper clothes). Then, he settled the tray on his lap and patiently fed her the inadequate supper their guards had provided.

Once he had finished feeding her, he was at a loss. With anyone else, he would have seduced her to his bed by now, teasing her secrets into the open as he expertly inflamed her passion. Except, his bed was in a cell, and her secrets would get her killed. Even If she understood the language, his seduction would have to include more than sex to entice her to speak.

Inspired, he tried a new tactic. Rummaging through the pockets of his orange prison garb, he finally found what he had been looking for. Filling the small sink with warm water, he cheerfully held up a compact purple case.

For once, he didn't bother trying to explain. Instead, he led her to the sink, bent her over it and thoroughly washed her hair. After he had rinsed out the soap and dirt, he sat her on the toilet for lack of a chair. Then, he rubbed a thick conditioner into her scalp using the sensual massage techniques he had mastered at the space port. By the time he had finished, soft moans escaped her lips.

Hiding a conceited smile, he pulled out a small comb to unravel the tangles in her cascading auburn hair. As it dried in flowing waves, he bestowed the same attention on her body, loosening her inadequate covering to carefully lather away the dirt and sweat from her skin.

She was shivering by the time he had finished washing the grime from her body. It was all too easy to wrap his arms around her and whisper false flattery.

"You're beautiful, princess. You don't deserve what's happened to you. There must be a rational explanation. Tell me, and I'll make sure they understand. There's no way you're a terrorist. I know it must be some mistake."

She rested her head against his chest as he murmured salvation in her ear. Encouraged, he slowly backed her up until her legs hit the edge of the single bed. In a matter of moments, he was lying against her on the thin mattress, ready to make his seduction complete.

And then, he just had to take one last look in her damn eyes. There was no comprehension there, simply the primal stirrings of arousal, and a blind, shining faith that he feared was directed towards him. His hands stilled immediately, and her expression slowly grew bemused. Awkwardly he patted her on the head.

"It's been a long day, sweetheart. It's best if we both got some sleep."

She settled beside him, and he tucked the coarse blanket around them. She smelled faintly of warm cinnamon, and he slept dreaming of the clan feasts of his childhood and happier times.

* * *

><p>Emma silently congratulated herself for being such a good actress. She'd fooled far more astute humans in the past than a simple Time Agent from the Boeshane Peninsula. While she had enjoyed her improvised bath, she had no intention of taking the charade any further. She was not about to become one of the roguish agent's conquests, even if his massage talents rivaled those of the Order of the Fourteen-Fingered Phrenologists.<p>

It had been refreshing, really, to forget for a few moments that she lived under a death sentence. And, she had been pleasantly surprised that her fellow prisoner had ended the game of seduction of his own accord. She had planned to panic at the crucial moment, throwing herself away from him before he could himself disrobe, but in the end, it had been unnecessary.

Unexpectedly, a wave of shame washed over her. Her casual manipulation only served to emphasize how low she had fallen. The lesser species weren't playthings to exploit and discard like cheap toys, although she had done the same time and time again using the war as her excuse. Had she become so well versed in deceit and deception that she had forgotten how to treat others with respect and dignity? The man lying beside her was doomed to share her fate. The least she could do was treat him with a small measure of kindness and stop toying with his emotions.

Troubled by a familiar demon, Emma agonized over past actions for the rest of the night. When morning came, she slipped out of bed and quietly donned her skimpy gown, not out of embarrassment over her nude form, but as a way to distance herself from the man who had been unwilling to carry through with his seduction the evening prior.

For almost an hour, she watched him sleep. And, then the Graske slid their meager breakfast through a temporary hole in the force field. Before she could wake her cellmate, however, the Chief Interrogator stalked into their cell, his face the color of ripe tomatoes. His mouth curled in a nasty snarl, he clamped his right hand around her neck. She made no attempt to move. Knowing how weak she was, he could likely snap her vertebrae with the correct pressure.

"Wake up, Six! I saw the highlights of last night's surveillance video. This isn't some kind of game, you moron! I told you before to fuck her and get it over with!"

She watched as the man who shared her cell made a show of lazily getting out of bed. He was trying for nonchalance, but failed miserably every time his blue eyes flicked worriedly to her neck.

"Yeah, one small problem with that. The Shadow Accords prohibits the sexual assault of prisoners. I'd prefer not to have the Judoon carry out my summary execution for capital crimes against sentient beings this morning."

The grip around her neck tightened, and Emma wondered exactly how long her respiratory bypass could function without an intake of fresh air.

"I didn't see her complaining last night, and I don't see her complaining right now."

Nastily, he smirked at her, his beady eyes glinting with amusement. "Unless you voice an objection, Red, I'm going to have to report anything that happens between us today as consensual."

It was all she could do not to kick him in the crotch, but she maintained her silence and apparent fear.

"No? Well, today is going to be more fun than I thought, then."

As he abruptly released his grip, she sagged to the floor, taking in huge gasps of air. He didn't allow her much time to recover, pulling her by the hair towards the door. Scrambling to match his stride, she tried to comfort herself with the fact that she would be dead in mere days and free of his torment.

* * *

><p>Hours later, when it was over and she was returned unceremoniously to her cell, she was stunned to be alive. At one point, he had hit her in the head hard enough to briefly lose consciousness. She had been sure she would never regain it. She should be dead. Why couldn't she be dead? She just wanted it to end.<p>

'Please, Rassilon. Please,' she repeated again and again in her mind. 'Please just let me die. I deserve to die."


	4. The Temptress of Galbon

Author's Notes - Just a little clarification before you read this chapter. Italics generally indicate a flashback. This particular one occurs when Jack (Agent Sixty-Nine) is inside Emma's mind. He can see actions, not her inner thoughts, although I've included them for the reader. Hope you enjoy. Reviews are appreciated.

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><p>This time, when his partner returned the prisoner, she had to be dragged in by two of the guards. She didn't raise her head as they dropped her unceremoniously on the floor, although she appeared to be uninjured. Taking a closer look, however, he realized something was seriously wrong.<p>

Lightly, he asked, "Tissue regenerator overheat before you could finish? She's got blood coming out of her ear."

Ninety-Six nervously glanced at the surveillance camera in the ceiling before answering. "The techno-geeks wouldn't let me use it on her head. Something about it not being sophisticated enough to heal brain trauma."

The imprisoned Time Agent narrowed his eyes in anger, about to ask exactly how the prisoner was supposed to speak with a brain injury, but his partner quickly tried to downplay the incident.

"She's got a minor concussion, nothing more. It's a shame she slipped on her way back to her cell. Call for the guards if she becomes an issue."

He didn't bother answering since the so-called Chief Interrogator made haste to leave. Focusing on the girl, he gently placed his hand on her chest, only to yank it back in surprise. He warily searched confines of the cell for the source of the voices he had heard, but they were alone. Trying to ignore what he couldn't explain, he touched her again, intending to assess her injuries, but again he abruptly pulled away.

Was he finally going mad? He knew what he had heard. Someone was begging for death in every language in which he was fluent. Shanii, Standard, Old English, Proto-English, Silurian, Venusian, Yeti, Martian—they all swirled about his ears, the message the same. However, they had gone silent as soon as he had moved.

He placed his hand once again on her chest, and immediately heard the voices. Only, this time, he was aware of the fact it was the same voice, calling out the same plea in seven different languages at the same time. There was only one logical explanation; he had somehow touched her mind.

Brushing her cheek, he could feel her guilt like a crushing weight as she begged her victims for forgiveness and longed for an end to her suffering. She was most certainly a terrorist. It stung that she had intentionally played the innocent, toying with his emotions like a puppet master. He had almost fallen for it, which infuriated him beyond reasoning. No one was that innocent.

Breaking physical contact, he knew exactly the treatment she deserved. Harshly, he whispered in her ear.

"Don't worry, doll; I'm sure you'll get your wish. They'll kill you as soon as they discover why you were found next to a weapon of temporal annihilation. With terrorists, they always do."

Rising stiffly to his feet, the imprisoned Time Agent self-assuredly addressed the ever present surveillance device. "I told you she didn't talk, you moron. She doesn't need to. She's a telepath!"

Twenty minutes later, he was standing under the hot spray of one of the staff showers scrubbing off the grime of his incarceration. A clean uniform waited for him, as well as his sonic blaster and a new pair of boots. All in all, it hadn't been a bad imprisonment, and it was now thankfully over.

Humming a catchy tune under his breath, he finally emerged from the changing area. Clean-shaven and dressed in the official midnight blue uniform of the Time Agency, Agent Sixty-Nine planned to report to Tempus Tor for his new assignment after visiting a certain diner where he'd charmed the cook into making Calish stew just the way his father had. Aside from the one meal Sixty-Nine had shared with him, bad food had been the one constant in prison, and he vowed to make up for it. Almost waltzing with satisfaction, he made it past three security checkpoints before hearing his name being called out.

"Where do you think you're going, Six?"

Spinning around, he gave his partner a jaunty salute. "Hyg's Café. I thought I'd get something to eat before reporting to HQ."

"Sorry, but that will have to wait," the other man answered in a way that made clear he wasn't sorry at all. "You're not finished with your old assignment yet."

"I don't know what game you're playing, Nine, but there is no way you or anyone else is going to get me back into that cell." His outrage wasn't feigned. He had no intention of finishing his prison sentence while he was still the hero of the day.

"Don't worry; you won't be going back as a prisoner. We're partners again! Makes sense; you've got the highest psi rating in the Time Agency. Why do you think no one heard her before now? The techno-geeks need your help, and Headquarters has already agreed."

"Shit."

Crawling around someone else's mind was the last thing he wanted to do, but Ninety-Six had a point. No one else in the Time Agency was as sensitive as he to telepathic communication. It was a rare talent among the human population, and the Time Agency often sent him on missions where it proved to be a tactical advantage. Wading through the misdeeds of a terrorist, however, was not something he looked forward to.

Understanding his hesitation, Ninety-Six cajoled, "They've offered to credit your private account with the pay you would have earned during your imprisonment."

He considered. Six and a half months pay that he hadn't already squandered was a significant chunk of credits. He could hire a new tracking firm to find Gray. Immediately he ruled that plan out. With his Vortex Manipulator, he could do much better on his own.

"Fine, but I want twenty days leave without restrictions as soon as we're finished here."

"Done." Grinning slyly, he placed a finger over his partner's mouth. "Maybe I can take my leave at the same time, and we can spend it together on Bleak."

He was tempted to bite Nine's finger in half, but he held back. A few weeks on Bleak with his partner would likely drive him to murder. Instead, he wrapped his tongue around it and sucked before letting it go with a pop.

"Who knows? Guess I've got to take care of the terrorist first." Before his companion could compose some witty or crude retort, he strode down the corridor, ignoring the few prisoners who languished in the cells.

* * *

><p><em>Emma wiped her mouth with a crisp, starched napkin, wondering when the tedious formal dinner would end. She sat at the right-hand side of Rouchmel, knowing full well that this was the night he would proudly announce the discovery of an almost impenetrable alloy that would revolutionize the planet Galbon's industrial base. Unfortunately, the alloy was also a key component to the Dalekanium that the Kaled scientist Davros was at this particular point in history attempting to create to protect his mutant abominations.<em>

_The High Council had decided to subvert this announcement by starting a civil war between Rouchmel and his long-time advisor, Gedrow Salow. It had been calculated that the Daleks would need four hundred seventy-three years to create such an alloy on their own. It had also been calculated that the civil war would result in six hundred fifty thousand Galbonian deaths, but that had been deemed an acceptable loss by the newly elected High Lord President, Romanadvoratrelundar._

_So, for the last eleven months, Emma had been posing as one of the scholars who had been given the task of recreating the great depository of knowledge of Rouchmel's ancestors. With a few carefully timed accidental meetings, she had quickly impressed the monarch, and subsequently won his heart. Just six weeks prior, she had been named as favored concubine, which was perfect, since her supposed death would be the catalyst for the war._

_That morning, she had breathlessly confessed to Rouchmel that she was carrying his child. His genuine excitement over the callous lie had left her queasy for the rest of the day, and she was glad that she could use morning sickness as an excuse not to socialize. In the months she had lived another's life, she had found Rouchmel to be patient, kind and refreshingly optimistic. He was a benevolent monarch who often debated the merits of self-rule with any noble willing to listen. Left alone, this timeline would usher the Galbonians to a thousand years of peace and prosperity. But, it was not to be—all because of her._

_Before they had entered the grand dining hall that evening, she had baited the trap. Nervously adjusting Rouchmel's green doublet, she had quietly declared her fears. "I know you wish to announce my pregnancy tonight, love, but I fear for our child's safety if such knowledge were to be made public. It is bad enough that you have informed Gedrow. He . . . he accosted me in my chambers this afternoon while I was resting. He was agitated, and said all sorts of vile things. He does not believe the child to be yours, Rouchmel. He told me you have been sterile since a childhood illness. How could he say such a thing?"_

_The gentle ruler she had come to respect placed a hand on her flat stomach, his voice husky with emotion. "I have long feared the same, my Gemma, but this child proves it false. The life growing inside you is the miracle I have long hoped for. Do not fret, my dear. Gedrow is impulsive, but he is absolutely loyal to me."_

_Bowing her head, the tears she had shed had been real enough, her guilt threatening to choke her. But, Rouchmel saw nothing but the emotions of his love in a delicate state, although the distress in her voice would forever haunt his dreams._

"_I fear you are only too right. He threatened to harm me and the child if I do not distance myself from you and admit to being an unfaithful fraud."_

_The king's face became impassive, although she could feel his emotions broiling under the surface. Tipping her face upwards, he wiped away her tears. "He will do no such thing. I will speak to him privately after the banquet. He'll come to understand the truth, I promise."_

"_A promise from you is nothing more than a certainty, Rouchmel. Forgive me for burdening you. No doubt I am overwrought."_

_He smiled sunnily, and she was almost sick at the knowledge of how the night might end. _

"_Don't worry, Gemma. I have been told to expect your tears as our child grows inside you. Gedrow will rejoice with us, or he will find himself without a position on my staff. You have my word on that."_

_She had kissed him passionately then, hoping he could feel the unspoken apology on her lips. Naturally, he found nothing amiss with her affection, save that it was more ardent than usual. _

"_And I have been told to expect this, too," he whispered huskily in her ear, sending a pool of heat to her core. "Perhaps if you are not too tired after dinner, we could retire early to my chambers."_

_Flushed, she had eagerly agreed, spending a precious moment in denial of what was to come. Finally seated at the banquet table, she blithely slipped the clear liquid that Leska gave her every morning into her cup. Leska, a junior agent with the CIA, had jumped back in time ten years prior to her arrival, serving for the last eight as the Court Physician. It was his duty to give Rouchmel's concubines their daily supplements, and no one would ever suspect his duplicity should she be poisoned._

_Considering her drink, Emma hoped that she had not just tipped in the poison. She had begged the High Council to reconsider their actions, arguing that assassinating the scientist who had discovered the alloy would give the same result with fewer deaths. If they had vetoed her plan, however, tonight would be the night that the poison would still her hearts. Rouchmel would blame her supposed death and the death of his imaginary child on a man who had served as his trusted friend and advisor for over twenty years. Invoking Time's favor, she put it all out of her mind in order to savor the hours she had left with someone in a different life she might have come to love. _

_When she saw Gedrow sitting stiffly at Rouchmel's left, however, she spent the first two courses of the feast in a guilt-ridden daze, eating only when Rouchmel encouraged her to try a particular dish. All too soon, it was time to drink from the bitter cup she had tainted with her own hand._

_Putting the chalice to her lips, she stopped in confusion as the king turned to her and spoke in an oddly familiar voice. _

"Now, this is an interesting memory in your head, sweetheart. You must be really good with a shimmer because you look at least fifteen years older and your bone structure is completely different. So you're the temptress of Galbon. The conspiracy theorists are going to have a field day with you."

Emma blinked, and the scene changed before her. She was sitting in the small cell on Tuem. Her one-time benefactor stood in front of her, an icy anger masking his face. It was his underlying feeling of profound disappointment, though, that hurt her the most.

"Why?"

It wasn't a question she could answer, not without trusting him far more than she dared. Frantically, she replayed her thoughts, making sure he had only seen actions, not motivations. Satisfied that he had not sensed her true emotions or the reason for inciting the war, she feigned nonchalance.

"Does it matter?"

His eyes narrowed, and she felt every ounce of sympathy he had ever felt for her shrivel and die, leaving only bitterness.

"What the hell are you?"

"A mass murderer," she answered without apology. "You said so yourself. I'm the Temptress of Galbon."

Sneering, he retorted, "Well, at least you're honest, sweet cheeks. I can't wait to tell my partner. He gets off on celebrities, the more infamous the better."

She shrugged. That thought didn't surprise her, nor did it particularly bother her. An oversexed Time Agent was the least of her worries now. Really, she had known from the instant she had taken the fission grenades out of her backpack on Emerald that she had signed her death warrant. She simply hoped now that she enough fortitude left to die with dignity.

Annoyed by her lack of response, he soon grew bored of taunting her. With a spiteful mental yank, he pulled out of her mind, leaving her utterly alone with a splitting headache. So great was her misery that she barely heard him pronounce her guilty of a crime that stunned even the jaded bunch in the interrogation room.

"You're right. She's a temporal terrorist. One of the worst. She's responsible for the civil war on Galbon, and who knows what else." Furious that she had tricked him into feeling sorry for her in the first place, he vindictively added, "Oh, and by the way, she talks just fine. I'm sure if you persuade her hard enough, you'll hear for yourself."

Not trusting himself to refrain from killing her then and there, Agent Sixty-Nine stalked out of the room. Authorized or not, he was going to Hyg's. He'd waited for the Calish stew long enough. He figured, this time, the Time Agency owed him.

* * *

><p>Slapped awake from his drunken stupor three days later, Agent Sixty-Nine blearily looked at his partner, who was once again wearing his full uniform. Ninety-Six didn't bother with a 'good morning', but got straight to the point, which was satisfying the bulge in his pants. Annoyed at being forced to perform yet again, the raven-haired man gave as good as he got, wondering all the while if his lover possessed any pain receptors whatsoever. His only luck was that the encounter was brief, thanks to the blonde's over eagerness.<p>

Grumpily, he made his way to his private bathroom, denying entry to his currently rumpled lover. A shower and a change of clothes later, he craved caffeine. Ignoring the other man in the room, he headed towards the diner. It didn't matter. Ninety-Six trailed after him, well used to his morning irritability.

Only after he had consumed three cups of coffee along with a sugary pastry did his companion inform him of the true purpose for waking him that morning.

"Headquarters tried contacting you eight times in the last ten hours. Don't you ever check your messages?"

He grunted, still fighting the effects of his hangover.

Taking his response for a 'no', Ninety-Six ploughed on. They gave me four hours to find you. Since it only took ten minutes, I thought we'd make the most of the extra time. You're wanted back on Tuem. Your little terrorist won't last much longer, and they want you to scour her mind one last time."

"She's not talking?"

He had assumed that she would speak once there was no point in trying to hide it. She was the reason for his hangover, even though he would never admit it. He couldn't get her out of his head. He kept pondering the events he had seen in her mind. Something didn't add up, something obvious, but it eluded him.

He was startled out of his thoughts by his partner's answer. "Oh, she's talking. It's been impossible to shut her up. Not that she's said anything of value. She spends most of the time expounding on the virtues of Rouchmel II. She's even offered to tell the archaeologists where they can find his lost depository of knowledge. She claims she hid it the day the war broke out. Good thing she wasn't talking when I had my fun with her. Not even breaking her in like I did would have been worth it if she'd been talking. You should hear her. She can go on for hours."

Dully, Sixty-Nine stared at the man sitting on the stool next to him. Suddenly, nothing made sense. "What do you mean, 'breaking her in'?"

"Virgin territory," he crowed. "I haven't popped anyone's cherry since I was twelve. Damn, her screams were exquisite."

Jack wondered if he were still drunk. Or maybe his partner was. That was impossible, even with a shimmer. She had been Rouchmel's lover for months. He supposed it was conceivable that she had undergone reconstructive surgery afterwards, but he couldn't imagine a reason why. It wasn't as if an intact hymen had any significance in the fifty-first century.

"You said she was bad off?"

"Dying. I'm surprised she lasted this long, not that it wasn't fun to watch. Being chief interrogator has its perks, but they want you to try one last time. She flatly refused to discuss the circumstances of her capture."

"Guess I'd better get it over with, then." Getting a cup of coffee to go, he practically ran over a few customers in his haste to leave. He intended to get some answers, and time was running out.


	5. Time Slip

Author's Notes - For anyone reading this who hasn't read The Emissary, the scene in Greece won't make too much sense. It was detailed in Chapter 56, _Snapshots of the Past_. Rest assured, it's explained more fully in this story in the next few chapters. Comments are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Agent Sixty-Nine glanced down at the woman with whom he'd shared a cell, terribly conflicted. Three days ago, he had been so sure of himself, positive that she had played him like a fool and deserved her fate. But seeing her delicate body battered, broken and bloody brought a twinge of remorse to his chest. Perhaps in suffering so much, she had gained some measure of atonement for her crimes. Even the lead scientist appeared to be affected by her pitiful state.<p>

"One of her hearts failed yesterday, and we haven't been able to rouse her since late last night. The Shadow Proclamation is sending an envoy to ensure her sentient rights are protected, but she won't last the day. Is she too far gone for you?"

"Don't know," he truthfully replied as he disconnected the various monitors from her body. If he did manage to reach her, he doubted it would be for long. Defense against a mental intrusion was taxing. It would definitely hasten her death.

"We want to know the physics behind the remains of the temporal transporter we found on Earth and the reason for its presence there."

Those weren't the mysteries that interested him, but he kept that thought private. "Sure. You got a chair I can sit in? I don't want to fall on my ass if I go in too deep."

A comfortable chair quickly appeared, and he didn't waste time making small talk. Without further ado, he sat down and took her hand, steeling himself for the confrontation that was to come.

Red grass surrounded him as far as the eye could see. The air was sweet with blooming clumps of exotic purple lilies that dotted the rolling hills. With the sensation of the wind ruffling his hair, he began to walk aimlessly in the direction of the sound of rushing water.

He found her lying peacefully on the warm grass at the edge of a dense forest, appearing as she had in the memory of Galbon rather than her true, younger form. Her eyes had been closed as if in slumber, but as soon as his shadow touched her body, she sat up, her expression hardening.

"Didn't see enough last time, agent?"

"You could say that."

Her head pounded so much. She barely understood his reply, and it was difficult to think. Unbidden, she found herself slipping into another memory, dragging him with her.

This time, her mind took her back to Greece. Recognizing the columns standing only thirty feet away, she began to shake. "Not this, please, not this. Don't make me see this again."

He watched the unfolding scene with interest. There were too many women in the memory for him to be sure of her identity, but his interest soon fixated on the charging metal shape. It couldn't be, but he was suddenly up close and personal with a Dalek shouting 'Exterminate' in the background. The people it had targeted were too far away to hear, but he was tempted to yell out a warning before he remembered that this was all inside the dying woman's head.

It didn't end well. The youngest redhead was neatly disintegrated in a plasma beam as what must have been her family ran for their lives. Closer to him, an older woman wearing a black uniform was forcibly being restrained by a similarly dressed man. From their strangled conversation, he guessed they were freelance time travelers. The woman had been tempted to change the past, something both stupid and perilous. Even he knew the dangers of such reckless behavior; he had been tempted with Gray often enough.

Slowly, the images faded away to be immediately replaced with another. For a moment, he felt like he was floating, the illusion of deep space all too real. And then he saw it—a Dalek battle fleet of historic proportions.

"What the hell?"

_Recklessly running through the edge of the murky swamp, Emma cursed her companion, a veteran CIA operative by the name of Hallon. If he hadn't insisted on setting the opposing wormholes on a delayed timer, the planet would have already been destroyed under the force of the warring black holes that were about to rip Fadda to shreds. _

"_Hurry up, Emissary! If we don't make it to the teleport site, we'll die with the Daleks!"_

_Huffing and puffing with exertion, she rebuked her lanky partner as they continued to race through the mire. "We should be dead already, but you just had to delay the timers, didn't you? This is a breeding planet, you imbecile! What are our two lives against two million dead Daleks?"_

_Shots from a particle gun hit the tree nearest them, and they postponed their argument in favor of picking up speed. Twisting and turning through the dense marsh, they finally managed to evade their pursuers to emerge muddy and scraped into a manmade clearing. Breathing heavily, she scouted the immediate area to ensure there were no Daleks in the vicinity._

_As Emma stood as a lookout, Hallon contacted the escape ship, but their answer was not to his liking._

"_Reapers' eggs! The entire tertiary fleet is overhead. They're evacuating the reproduction chambers."_

_Her anger and derision was unmistakable. "And you've given them an extra fifteen point seven minutes. Great job, Hal. That's enough time for them to save sixty percent of the genetic material, and we've no way to get through their sensor nets."_

"_Brax is bringing in the ship cloaked. He just needs a few minutes to do the calculations."_

_She couldn't quite believe her ears. "Is he insane? The chances of success are only—"_

_Hallon suddenly looked tired, his usually sparkling brown eyes dulled with weariness. "Twenty-two point one-three percent. He can do the math as easily as you, Emissary. I think he'd rather die than have to tell his brother he was responsible for your death."_

_Her cheeks reddened in anger, but she didn't protest, knowing it was true. Pacing, she waited for rescue, hoping it would come, not for her sake, but for her bond brother's. Although he was oftentimes an arrogant arse, she had secretly grown quite fond of him, not that she would ever admit it to someone like Hallon._

_A Battle TARDIS finally materialized at the rendezvous site with just thirty seconds to spare. Sprinting to the sleek, black column, both Hallon and Emma launched themselves through the open door just as the black holes began to tear the boggy planet into chunks of lifeless rock. _

_Before they could pick themselves off the floor of the control room, Brax had ordered that the ship materialize at a point on the edge of the solar system. There was cheering all around as the command controllers realized that they were going to live to fight another day._

_As Emma beat dried mud off her frayed uniform, she regarded her bond brother suspiciously. "Why aren't we closer? If we don't neutralize the black holes within three minutes of their creation, the entire system will be ripped apart."_

_Addressing her as one might an obtuse child, he patiently explained. "Hallon's mistake is our opportunity, Emissary. Not only will we deny two million future soldiers, but we will also wipe out their auxiliary fleet in one fell swoop." Grinning, he parroted a phrase his brother had picked up on Earth. "We will kill two birds with one stone."_

_Her hands tightened into fists as she understood that no one else in the room had a problem with that. "Zladda is a level three planet with six hundred thousand sentient beings living under the ground. They'll be caught in the time dilation field before the gravitational forces rip their planet apart. Every male, female and young one on Zladda will experience years' worth of suffering in the minutes it takes to break the planet into nothing bigger than dust and sand. By killing the fleet, you sentence them to death."_

"_They were dead regardless," he snapped, his patience worn thin. "You know they would have been used as slave labor sooner or later. Are you actually arguing that slavery under the Daleks is preferable to death?"_

"_Yes! No! Rassilon, but I don't know! When do people stop being acceptable losses? I've killed millions, Brax, potential and actual, all in the name of the greater good. But, the Daleks just keep coming. When is this going to end?"_

_Brax didn't answer, although he did put his hand on her shoulder as they watched the destruction of Dalek fleet on the view screen. By the time it was over, Zladda and several other planets, along with the system's yellow sun, had been consumed. Tersely, Irving Braxiatel gave the order to collapse the black holes._

_Recovering from her emotional outburst, Emma stood against the bare wall near the stairs to the crew quarters. Exhausted in body and spirit, she didn't hear her bond brother's approach until he was close enough to murmur in her ear._

"_I know you're upset, and I understand why. If we are to defeat the Daleks, however, we must carry on, no matter the sacrifices made. You're not a monster. You have done what has been necessary, nothing more. Even my brother would agree."_

"_Tell that to Rouchmel and his people," she ruefully muttered, but he ignored her bitterness._

_Beseechingly, he began to pull her towards the ship's corridors. "Come, you and Hallon must be famished. You should eat before you collapse. All will see today as a great victory. We have managed to do what even my brother has not. We have wiped out an entire Dalek fleet in a single blow. Perhaps the war will be over sooner than you hope."_

"_The war will never be over," she muttered despondently, but she followed him just the same._

Standing in a room full of half open wooden doors, Agent Sixty-Nine had no idea what to think. He had been right to suspect the Daleks of Agent Forty-One's death; it was obvious that they weren't extinct, but rather preoccupied with a conflict on a scale he could barely comprehend.

"What are you?"

"I'm . . . tired," she finally answered, her mind faltering as death drew ever closer.

Fortifying her consciousness, he wrapped his arms around her mental image. Questions swirled in his head, and it was impossible for him to choose which one to ask first. Ultimately, he relied on his mission.

"What were you doing on Earth? What was that thing you destroyed? How did it work?"

"The time corridor? I had to. They would have broken through."

"The Daleks?" he harshly demanded. He could feel her slipping away, and did everything in his power to delay the inevitable. It was imperative that he understand.

"It's . . . always the Daleks . . . isn't it?" she answered vaguely, hardly remembering the question.

"But why? What was that I saw? Who's fighting them? Can they recreate the corridor? Did you stop an invasion? Why do you appear as someone else in your mental image? Just what the hell is going on?"

But it was too late. Her consciousness had retreated where he could not follow. He would never know the answers to his questions now.

* * *

><p>'Please, Rassilon, please. Please, just let me die.'<p>

Lying on the cold concrete of her prison cell, Emma silently begged for death. She didn't understand why the sadistic agent had not killed her outright after brutally beating and raping her. She had done everything in her power to goad him into the final act, but she was lamentably alive.

Alive and in pain. Her entire body hurt, but the throbbing in her head dulled the agony of her violation. Unexpectedly, however, nausea abruptly overcame all other sensations. Rolling to her side, she vomited what little food she had eaten, unable to fight the feeling that her stomach wished to escape through her throat.

Something was horribly wrong, something much worse than her current injuries. Concentrating, she attempted to ignore her difficulties and simply feel. Extending her heightened senses, she quickly understood. The entire timeline had jumped, twisting into a new shape. One small fact had changed, although she was sure it would prove to be a monumental one. Only the Daleks could be responsible for such a change; she knew nothing of the kind had been deliberated by the High Council.

But, why was she alive? She distinctly remembered dying three days in the future. Cringing with despair, she realized that the unexpected alteration had caused time to slip backwards. She was going to have to relive the next three days before finding the release she sought. Was the universe truly that malevolent, or was she simply cursed to suffer?

'Please, Rassilon, please. Please, just let me die. I deserve to die.'

* * *

><p>Watching the traumatized girl vomit all over the floor after returning from her ordeal left a sour taste in Sixty-Nine's throat. He couldn't imagine her surviving another day of his partner's interrogation methods. Ninety-Six had gone too far, injuring her beyond the tissue regenerator's limits. Crouching over her, he gently placed his hand on her shoulder, intending to help her sit up enough to drink some water.<p>

Instantly, he heard a cacophony of voices, all begging for death. He yanked back his hand in surprise, and the voices suddenly quieted. Ignoring the strange auditory hallucinations, he touched her again, but again he abruptly pulled away.

Was he finally going mad? He knew what he had heard. Someone was begging for death in every language he knew. Shanii, Galactic Standard, Old English, Proto-English, Silurian, Venusian, Yeti—they all swirled about his ears, the message the same. However, they had gone silent as soon as he had removed his hand from her arm.

Suspicious, he placed his hand once again on her body, and the voices immediately returned. Only, this time, he was aware of the fact it was the same voice, calling out the same plea in seven different languages at the same time. There was only one logical explanation; he had somehow touched her mind, channeling her emotions into something he could understand.

For a fleeting second, he was enraged that she had been playing him for a fool all this time. She was a telepath, and an intelligent one at that. The room briefly spun, however, and that feeling fizzled before it could be fully formed.

Comprehension dawned. She was a telepath. She likely didn't need to speak in order to communicate with her own people. How long had she called out to her captors hoping someone would hear? He had the highest psi rating in the Time Agency, and he had only heard her after she had obviously suffered a head injury.

Wanting nothing more than to reassure her, his fingertips brushed against her cheek. For the first time, she flinched away from him, and he cursed his partner with a colorful string of Shanii expletives and idioms.

"Hey, it's okay, sweetheart. I promised I wouldn't hurt you, remember? I'm going to clean you up, and then get you into bed. The water's cold, and no one left you any clothes, but you'll feel better resting under the blanket, okay?"

Not entirely sure she understood, he continued to speak to her in a calm monotone as he washed away her blood. The cold water must have been a torture in itself, but she was too weak to protest. Wistfully, he remembered her reaction to his touch the day before.

"I'm sorry, princess."

She didn't give any indication that she had understood, but this time, he took no offence. His apology seemed inadequate to his own ears. Surely, if she understood Galactic Standard, it would sound even more pathetic to hers.


	6. A Figment of Dreams

Author's Notes - Several flashbacks in this chapter. For those reading who haven't read The Emissary, I'm going to list the characters in the flashback in Greece to make it easier to understand. The girl, Susan, is the Doctor's granddaughter; Athena, the woman in blue, is his daughter; the older woman is Emma, his bond mate; and the man in the flashback is the Doctor. His brother, Brax has already made an appearance in an earlier flashback and will be featured in the next one. Hope this clears up any confusion. Reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

><p><em>Drinking deeply from the crystal goblet, Emma couldn't taste anything odd in the wine. She took another sip, then another, and when nothing immediately happened, she breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Leska must not have given her the poison. Perhaps the High Council had reconsidered, and she could simply disappear, leaving Rouchmel heartbroken, but his kingdom intact.<em>

_By the time she had finished her drink, she was relaxed and mentally composing her farewell letter to the king. She had long argued that there must be a better way to delay the emergence of the alloy and its sale to the Kaleds. Brax had no doubt accepted her alternate solution. _

_Smiling at her lover, she tugged at the high collar of her dress. In the last few minutes, the room had become stifling hot, and sweat dampened her skin. Rouchmel's smile turned to a frown, and her hearts hammered behind her ribcage. Had he discovered her duplicity?_

_Her hearts—she couldn't slow them; they were racing out of control, causing a deep ache in her chest. Pressing her hand to her breastbone, she panicked. What was happening to her? Why couldn't she breathe properly?_

"_Gemma? What's wrong?"_

_The sharp fear in the king's voice brought her back to reality. It was the poison, stealing her breath and stressing her cardiovascular system until it was on the verge of giving out. Death had temporarily taken her hand._

_Her body was no longer her own, but a slave to the chemicals that ran through her. Her muscles went limp, and she would have toppled out of her chair had Rouchmel not caught her. Frantically laying her on the ground, he yelled for the Court Physician, and she saw her accomplice approach. No one would ever suspect the elderly, olive-skinned man as the method of her execution._

_Kneeling over her, Leska pursed his lips, briefly checking her pulse. Dramatically, he revealed the shocking fact what would ignite ten years of hostilities between two men who until this day had been the strongest allies._

"_Look at her eyes, Sire! She has been poisoned by the leaves of the blood bush. No other substance causes the irises to redden like that." Quietly, for the king's ear only, he added, "Doesn't Gedrow keep a specimen of that plant in his greenhouse?"_

_The king snarled bringing his fear and anger to bear. "We can discuss conspiracies later, but you must save her! She cannot die!"_

"_It is too late, Sire," he answered sadly. "There is no antidote for such a poison."_

_Her extremities were growing numb. She could no longer feel Rouchmel's embrace. Tears ran unchecked down his face, and she desperately wished that she could brush them away. In his grief he would commit terrible acts, and would eventually die alone in a cell because Gedrow pitied him too much to have him executed. _

_If she had been able to speak, she would have apologized. No, she would have warned him that his friend was guilty in appearance only, but she had already been robbed of the choice. Everything was going dark. When she woke again, it would be to a familiar reality, one in which she was a mass murderer._

* * *

><p>The raven-haired man's eyes flew open as he woke from his strange and disturbing dream. No one knew what had truly occurred so long ago on the planet Galbon to spur their civil war, but conspiracy theorists had long held the death of Rouchmel the Second's concubine had been the cause. Some even went so far as to postulate that she had purposefully faked her death in order to bring down the dynasty because her sepulcher had been empty when the archaeologists had finally gotten around to excavating it. Others claimed the king had hidden her body towards the end of the war when he knew his monarchy would fall. Since no time traveler had ever been able to materialize anywhere near the bloody conflict, the truth remained a mystery.<p>

Why dream of such a thing now? He had never been interested in that quadrant of the Milky Way, preferring to concentrate on Earth history. Galbon wasn't even all that important in the overall scheme of things. Long ago, it had been destroyed by Skaro, the Daleks' home world.

And why had his subconscious given the concubine his cellmate's cascading auburn hair and aquamarine eyes? What message was his overtaxed brain trying to tell him? He had not revealed her secret yet. Was he supposed to be the king? Did he see himself losing her like the Rouchmel had lost his concubine?

He abruptly stopped his musing there. It had been apparent to anyone with eyes that Rouchmel had been deeply in love with the woman who had died, but he refused to make that connection. He didn't feel that way about anyone. He was too much of a disappointment to deserve such affection, and too selfish to give it. That had **not **been the association his subconscious had wanted him to make.

Surely, he was anxious about the decision he faced. Should he tell his lover that she was telepathic? He might spare her body further injury, but the possible damage to her mind as they changed interrogation tactics was all too real. He knew which answer was better for him, but the thought of what might happen to her was an unexpected consideration.

He spent several hours in tortured introspection until his cellmate woke up screaming. Taking one look at him, she sprang from the bed to huddle in the far corner of the cell. He longed to comfort her, but knew that he would probably frighten her all the more. In the end, he tossed the blanket in her direction and then lay down to face the wall. He was tired and frustrated, but after her ordeal he was careful not to do anything that might be construed as an advance. She had suffered enough already.

When the surly Orgon placed their morning's ration on the floor, he saw that she was sleeping, the blanket clutched around her. The slop they fed the prisoners was barely edible fresh, and he decided that it would be better to wake her so she could have some food in her stomach before the next round of questioning. He could wait to eat until the evening ration was served.

With a start, he realized that sometime during the night he had decided to keep her secret. He'd have to find some other way to get out of this hellhole.

Gently at first, he attempted to shake her awake, but when she wouldn't rouse, he tried more insistently. "Hey, I know it's tempting, but you can't play possum forever. You might as well have some breakfast."

She didn't stir, and he belatedly understood that she was unconscious rather than asleep. Picking up the plate, he shoveled the half-rancid stew into his mouth as quickly as possible, and then he called the guard.

"Hey, King Kong! We've got a problem over here! I think my partner might have hit the prisoner a little too hard yesterday. She won't wake up. Hey! I'm talking to you!"

It took five minutes for someone to respond. Jack's heart sank when he saw it was the man who was responsible for her injuries in the first place. Roughly, the blonde pushed past Jack to pull up the unconscious girl and slap her several times on her injured cheek. When she didn't respond, he dropped her to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"Shit! What did you do to her, Six? Decide to get some pussy after I left and took it too far?"

Jack bridled at the accusation. "I'm not the one who left her bleeding, remember?

He kicked the edge of the bed. "Well, fuck. She's no use to anyone like this. What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Get her to the infirmary and let a real physician heal her this time?" Jack's sarcasm was wasted on his sometime lover, who praised him for his levelheaded thinking.

"Hey, good idea, Six. If anyone tries to blame me, I can tell them the techies didn't heal her head yesterday. If it was that bad, they should have insisted on taking her to the infirmary. What do you think?"

'I think I'm in hell with a moron,' he thought resignedly as Ninety-Six gestured for him to pick up the girl. Hefting her in a fireman's carry, he walked out of their squalid cell and into the corridor under the watchful eyes of the ever-present Orgons.

The guards had made his incarceration a miserable affair. Normally, he would trade sex for favors, but he had some standards, and those lackeys were definitely beneath them. He wasn't above taunting them, however; so he gave each one he passed a sneer and made a veiled insult about their parentage.

Thick as Orgons were, he was usually too far down the corridor to suffer retaliation when they finally worked out the insult. Unfortunately, he passed one who was brighter than the rest, and the guard took offense. The ape-like alien clouted him so hard in the side that he doubled over, falling to the ground with the girl still on top of him. And then, the corridor disappeared, and he was in another place entirely.

* * *

><p>"Hello."<p>

Spinning around, Agent Sixty-Nine was surprised to say the least. Standing before him was Rouchmel II's concubine. They were in the middle of a wide, empty avenue that could only exist in ancient Greece. Thinking she must have been addressing someone else, he looked around, but they were definitely alone. Deciding he was unconscious or asleep, his overriding thought was that she was breathtakingly beautiful, even wearing the drab black uniform.

He smiled his most seductive smile, his eyes heavy with the promise of sex, his pheromones wafting like a heady perfume on the gentle breeze. "Hello, gorgeous. Since I have no idea how you got us to Earth, I'm going to ask the obvious question. "Is this a dream? 'Cause if it is, I've got to say, I don't want to wake up."

If it was a dream, then it was an odd one. She didn't smile or fall into his arms like he had expected. Instead, she glared at him, definitely not amused. "You need to leave."

"Hey! I'm offended, sweetheart. As far as I know you're a figment of my dreams, so you really should show the proper respect. In fact, come here, honey."

Pulling her to him, he was stunned when she twisted faster than he could react and threw him to the ground.

"What was that for?" he asked in outraged disbelief.

"We may be stuck here together, Agent, but you are not going to take advantage of me. Frankly, I've had more than enough of that from your sick partner. So, you can just keep your hands to yourself.

Alarm bells began to ring in his head. Maybe this wasn't a dream. And, if she'd met his partner before, then she'd most likely already met him. Their timelines were out of sync, which put him at a great disadvantage.

"Sick might be a little harsh for Ninety-Six, but never let it be said that I forced myself upon anyone. I've got enough people wanting me, doll, to leave alone the ones who don't."

Picking out the hum of distant voices, she inwardly cringed, knowing what was to come. Outwardly, she was still full of piss and vinegar. "I'm sure they do. I've heard all about how easily you bend over when your little weasel says to. I can see how that would turn on those bullies at the Time Agency."

Theatrically clutching his chest, he staggered backwards. "You wound me, princess. I'll have you know I'm the best lover in six systems, Earth included." Rapidly sobering, he came within inches of her, using his height to his advantage. "Now, how about telling me your name and why you've dragged me here. 'Cause I've got to tell you, your foreplay leaves a lot to be desired."

The voices were getting louder, and Emma nervously glanced behind her. "Fine, Agent. If you insist on names, I'm going to call you Rick, and you may call me Ilsa."

"As long as you don't call me prick to go with it, Rick's fine with me."

Impatiently, she used her hand to shush him, and that's when he noticed that the street was suddenly alive with people. Vendors lined the avenue, selling everything from honey and mead to sheep and goats, pots and pans, baskets and cloth, olives and exotic spices. People milled about laughing and arguing, but took no notice of two oddly dressed strangers. Ilsa's black utilitarian trousers and button-down shirt were as out of place as his blue jumpsuit, but no one bothered to glance in their direction.

In fact, quite a few seemed determined to run over him, and if he hadn't backed up into a small space between two stalls he surely would have been pushed over. Gesturing at Ilsa to hide with him, he watched in disbelief as a boy dressed in a green tunic walked right through the intriguing woman.

"What the hell?"

Perplexed, he stepped out into the street, only to have the child's mother run straight through him. There was no sensation associated with such an event; one instant she was in front of him and the next she was behind him. Intending to ask Ilsa's advice, he turned in time to witness her frightening behavior. Staring in consternation at a group of people making their way towards them, she dropped to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears while whispered 'no' like a mantra.

Intrigued, he focused on the objects of her distress—a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a scarlet tunic with matching cloak, two beautiful women who were, going by their complementing ginger hair and high cheekbones, most likely mother and daughter, and a soulful adolescent girl whose hair and eyes were the color of the richest cocoa.

"_Did you enjoy your visit to the Parthenon, my dear?"_

"_Oh, yes, Grandfather, it was certainly impressive for its time. I found the simple symmetry of its design to be most refreshing, and the frieze was really quite beautiful. I can see why you and Grandmother are fond of it."_

_The oldest woman, the one dressed in deep green with hair the color of burnt copper, ruffled the teen's hair before giving her a one-armed hug. I've always had a soft spot for this period. In less than thirty years, Sparta will have overcome the Athenian empire in the Ionian wars. A good lesson in the ephemeral nature of all empires, Susan."_

"_Yes, Grandmother." _

_The young woman turned pensive, staring at the ground as she walked. It did not go unnoticed by the girl's mother for long._

"_Honestly, Susan, don't take your grandmother's ramblings quite so much to heart. Our empire has lasted almost a billion years and it will last a billion more, for we are lords of time, not territory. You need not fear Gallifrey's fall."_

_Sheepishly, the girl looked up, an embarrassed smile on her face. "Did I project that loudly, Mother?"_

_The vibrant woman, her brilliant blue chiton fastened with a large brooch of gold and sparkling sapphires, ruefully shook her head before softening her expression with a smile. "Your face gives you away, my child. There is no reason to read your mind. Now, tell me; what did you think of Athena?"_

"_Did they truly base the sculpture on you, Mother? Because, I must say that I do not see the likeness. That Athena is much more intimidating, not to mention the fact that her proportions are a bit broader than yours."_

_All three of the adults laughed at that, although Rick could not hear their reply as they walked further away. It was obvious that they were out of their time, however. Ignoring Ilsa, he began to follow. After thirty steps or so, she unexpectedly grabbed his arm, temporarily halting his progress._

"Let me go, sweetheart. That group's at least as interesting as you. Maybe they'd let me trade for a return trip to the fifty-first century. Dental hygiene isn't all that great here, and I'm proud of my pearly whites."

Her response was much more emotional than he had expected. She was anguished, her face scrunched up against a pain that was tangible. Wrenching himself away, he pulled out his sonic blaster, not asking himself where it had come from.

"Please, Rick, stay here. Let it go. I don't want to see, not again. I see it every time I close my eyes. We're both going to die. The faster you accept that, the better it will be, for the both of us."

Aiming the gun at her, he slowly backed away, keeping his eye on the group of time travelers until he was sure she would not stop him. Then, he sprinted down the street, running through columns and carts this time as well as people.

_Trailing a safe distance behind, he walked through increasingly narrow and deserted streets until he reached the edge of an industrial area. From the marble columns and broken statues lining the narrow paths, he thought they might be approaching a quarry or stonecutter's shop, but he never had a chance to find out._

_While the family unconcernedly bickered over where they had parked their ship, a particle beam hit a column not far from where he loitered, dissolving it into nothing. Taking cover behind a statue of Aphrodite, he watched the family scramble to find safety, but it was not to be. The woman in blue glanced behind her and then forcefully pushed her father to the ground. The particle beam that would have hit him found her instead, and she was gone in an instant._

_As horrified as they must have been, the remaining family members kept running, not wanting her death to be in vain. Spinning around, Rick noticed what they did not. Hidden by a large, cracked statue of Apollo, two people stood against the wall of a potter's shed, both dressed in the same black uniform as Ilsa. Quickly losing interest in the family making their escape, he walked towards the two strangers, noting that the man restrained the older woman as she cried._

_He was almost within shouting distance of the pair when Ilsa suddenly popped up in front of him. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked haggard, as if she hadn't slept in several days._

"Please, Rick. Just leave it. You can't change anything."

The couple near the wall seemed to be frozen in time, unmoving and as still as the statue they hid behind. Rick was beyond suspicious now.

"Just leave what, Ilsa? What the hell is this place? Those people over there are wearing uniforms just like yours, and you look like you're related to the woman who was killed. Your hair and eyes are uncannily similar. Hell, you could be twins except for the bone structure. You're certainly near enough in age."

"Please, I'm begging you, just stop."

But, he had no intention of stopping. Not when he was so close to finding the answers he sought. Ignoring her pleas, he walked purposefully towards the pottery shed. What he would witness would destroy the comforting lies of his existence, and propel him to take his first steps towards his inconceivable destiny.


	7. Self Image

Ignoring Ilsa's pleas, Rick continued walking towards the pottery shed. In a moment of disorientation, he was suddenly behind his prey, observing the two as they secretly watched the family of time travelers blithely meander along. The pair wore matching black uniforms, but the color only seemed to highlight the severity of the man's gaze. Rick was suddenly glad that he was an invisible spectator. While the man might look like he'd worked at a desk for too long, he had a predatory gaze that hinted at a lifetime of combat. While her eyes were no less lethal, the woman wore her uniform unbuttoned enough to show some cleavage, and even in middle age, she gave the impression of soft femininity. If only her dark hair wasn't chopped into an unflattering bob. It merely emphasized the lines around her mouth.

Committing their appearance to memory, Rick breathlessly watched the scene unfold, his curiosity peaked. The man had his hand painfully wrapped around the woman's wrist as she struggled desperately to free herself.

"_I can save her, Brax! She doesn't have to die!"_

"_She's been dead for seven hundred fifty-six years, Em! You know there's nothing you can do. This must be a fixed point! We're here to find the Daleks, not bring the Reapers down on Greece."_

_The first particle beam chose that moment to destroy a perfectly sound column, and Rick finally saw what had been attacking the time travelers. A lone Dalek of metallic silver flew not a meter off the ground, skillfully dodging the marble obstructions as if it were an expert player of a vintage video game. Seeing the aggressive alien, the woman made to scream, but the man was faster, clamping his free hand over her mouth. _

_When the Dalek disintegrated the other woman, her struggles abruptly ceased. The man let go of her, and she sank to the ground, sobbing and shaking. With deadly accuracy, he fired a sonic blaster much like Rick's own, disposing of the Dalek before it could get off another shot. _

"_This was fixed," he said unsteadily, obviously sickened at what he had just witnessed. "Change it now and it would cause a massive paradox." _

_When she faintly nodded her head in agreement, he helped her to stand. Her trembling was so bad that she was forced to lean heavily against him. Slowly, they walked to a column he hadn't noticed before made of dense black marble. It opened, and they somehow managed to squeeze inside. When it dematerialized, he understood it to be their ship, although he'd never seen something quite that small used as a space hopper before now._

A thousand questions swirled through his head, and he wanted nothing more than to have another chance to follow the time travelers. Maybe then he could understand what the hell had just happened, and why a Dalek would be flying around this time period. The more he thought about it, the more his determination grew to make sense of it all.

Around him, an invasive fog rolled in, until he could see nothing but his hands in front of his face. Within minutes, however, it dissipated, and he was once again standing in the middle of the wide avenue. A merchant selling olive oil clumsily tipped a barrel he had been attempting to move, and Rick had an eerie sense of déjà vu. No matter how implausible it seemed, he was about to get his wish. He had somehow jumped almost an hour back in time.

"Please, Rick. Don't do this. Don't make me live through it again."

Looking down, he belatedly noticed Ilsa on the ground, both eyes blackened and blood dripping from her nose. Crouching beside her, he pulled her to a sitting position.

"I think I deserve to know what's going on here, don't you? I told the Time Agency the Daleks were back, and they slapped me with a reprimand and marooned me at Headquarters as a reward for my efforts. And now, I see one up close and personal, or at least as up close as I ever want to get. Why is Hellenistic Greece suddenly ground zero for time travelers? You'd think reality would be thin here with all the temporal displacement, but I can't feel a thing."

"Please, it doesn't matter; just let it go. Think about something else."

"It matters to me, sweetheart, and I'm going to see if I can't figure it out."

With that, he began walking towards the Parthenon, hoping to catch the group before they left the temple this time. Before he had taken two steps, he felt her hand on his shoulder.

"Please."

Ignoring her, he continued down the street, stopping only when he heard her shouts.

"Fine! You want answers, Rick? You aren't where you think you are! This isn't ancient Greece! You're inside my head where I'm stuck reliving my worst memories over and over again all because of you! Stop it! Just please stop!"

He usually wasn't a sucker for weeping women, but something about her inspired his sympathy. Returning to her side, he gently pushed back her tangled auburn hair. The left side of her face was swollen black and blue.

Wiping her tears away on the mostly uninjured right side of her face, he waited until she had stopped crying before demanding answers.

"If what you say is true, and I'm not saying I believe you yet, who are you? How can you have these memories? Are they familial or were you wearing a shimmer? How is Rouchmel the Second's favorite concubine connected to the Daleks? She obviously didn't die on Galbon. Conspiracy theorists call her the Butcher of Galbon, you know."

Temporarily avoiding his questions, she traced patterns in the dirt. "I thought you'd be more interested in why you're trapped in my mind and how you're going to get out."

"One thing at a time, cupcake. Let's just say I'm more interested in what I saw right now than how to get out of your head. Besides, if I'm where I think I am, there's no rush to regain consciousness, anyway."

Playing with the dust of the packed earth, she finally answered.

"Every one of those people you've followed is related to me."

Stunned, he stared into her eyes, finding no hint of deception in her gaze. He could think of only one explanation for such an astonishing assertion. "True genetic memory. I thought that was a myth. But, what does all this have to do with the Daleks? Where did they go? What are they doing now? What's your involvement in this, Ilsa?"

"I can't say."

Her answer did not sit well with him. "Can't or won't?"

"Rick, please don't push this. There are things you'd be much safer not knowing."

But, he did push. He thought as hard as he could about the Daleks, wanting to know what they had been up to in the last two hundred fifty years. Slowly, the quiet street in Greece disappeared, and he found himself on in an enormous warehouse filled with rows upon rows of tanks containing some sort of grotesque caricature of life.

Voices coming towards him made him conceal himself behind a large electrical panel. Peeking around, he noticed Rouchmel's concubine, dressed in the now familiar black uniform, her hair braided down her back.

"_Stop staring at the tanks, Hal. The baby Daleks aren't going to kill themselves."_

_Her partner was so dark that Rick had almost missed him in the gloomy light. Only his nervous chuckle betrayed his location ten feet away from the intriguing woman. From his vantage point, the Time Agent thought he was on the long side of forty, his bulging muscles rippling underneath his uniform, which he wore much tighter than the woman did._

"_Only someone with your sick sense of humor would compare those killing machines to infants, Emissary. If they had weapons handy, they'd exterminate you without a second thought."_

_"I think you've forgotten that they don't have hands. Come on; lay the charges so we can get out of here."_

_Hallon intended to do just that, but his natural wariness led him to contact their escape TARDIS before completing his task. It took several minutes, and when he finally did make contact, he was greeted by a string of curses. "We can't engage the transport that close to the conductors. There's some sort of interference at work. You'll have to make a run for it and hope you've reached the alternate site in time."_

_Hal was about to protest, but Emma cut him off. "Roger that, Navigator. We'll have the trap laid in less than three minutes. Emissary, out."_

_Briskly, she began to lay out the components necessary to create opposing black holes. As she began to assemble it, however, Hallon grasped her wrist._

"_We'll never make it to the alternate site unless we put a delay on the chain reactions."_

_Yanking out of his grasp, she continued her work. "What happened to dying for the cause?"_

_The man obviously did not appreciate her answer because he pulled out an old-fashioned revolver. "It sounds better in theory, Emissary. I find the thought of dying at all somewhat troubling, especially when we can avoid it by setting this last timer fifteen minutes later than planned."_

"_You're a coward, Hal." Practically spitting, she stepped away, however, allowing him to add a quarter of an hour to the timers._

"_I may be a coward, but at least I'm not a traitor. How's your bond mate going to feel when he finds out you were seduced by a stupid ape? You won't be able to hide the evidence of that much longer."_

_There was a loud crack as Emma's open palm impacted on her partner's face. The gun was suddenly pointed at her head, but she found she no longer cared._

"_Don't you dare speak to me of my bond mate again, Hal. When he knows of my actions, he will be ashamed, but not for the reasons you think. I betrayed a man who trusted me and condemned his people to a bloody civil war just to deny the Daleks an alloy they eventually develop on their own. That will disappoint him much more than my 'falling' for one of the lesser species."_

_Ignoring his weapon, she continued to assemble the pieces laid out in front of her. Eventually, Hal put away his gun to assist her._

"_Apologies, Emissary. I should not have attacked your motives. I know you have completed more missions than the rest of us put together."_

"_Then let's complete this one. We'll just have to hope your zest for life doesn't give the Daleks time to discover the black hole accelerators."_

_They completed their work in silence, slipping out of the warehouse as quietly as they had come. Unfortunately, the CIA's intelligence on the planet was outdated, and they walked out during the guards' shift change. Discovered, they managed to evade the particle beams to recklessly run through the edge of the murky swamp._

_The scened jumped, and Rick watched as the woman beat dried mud off her frayed uniform, safe in a ship. _

_He saw the man from Greece, the one who had held back his partner when she had been tempted to interfere with time. It seemed that Rouchmel's mistress didn't trust him either. Her question was accusatory and shrill._

"_Why aren't we closer? If we don't neutralize the black holes within three minutes of their creation, the entire system will be ripped apart."_

_Addressing her as one might an obtuse child, the older man patiently explained. "Hal's mistake is our opportunity, Emissary. Not only will we deny our enemy two million future soldiers, but we will also wipe out their auxiliary fleet in one fell swoop." Grinning, he parroted a phrase his brother had picked up on Earth. "We will kill two birds with one stone."_

_Her hands tightened into fists as she understood that no one else in the room had a problem with that. "Zladda is a level three planet with ten million sentient beings living under the ground. They'll be caught in the time dilation field before the gravitational forces rip their planet apart. Every male, female and young one on Zladda will experience years' worth of suffering in the minutes it takes to break the planet into nothing bigger than dust and sand. By killing the fleet, you sentence them to death."_

"_They were dead regardless," he snapped, his patience worn thin. "You know they would have been used as slave labor sooner or later. Are you actually arguing that slavery under the Daleks is preferable to death?"_

"_Yes! No! Rassilon, but I don't know! When do people stop being acceptable losses? I've killed millions, Brax, potential and actual, all in the name of the greater good. But, the Daleks just keep coming. When is this going to end?"_

_The man named Brax didn't answer, although he did put his hand on her shoulder as they watched the destruction of Dalek fleet on the view screen. By the time it was over, Zladda and several other planets, along with the system's yellow sun, had been consumed. Tersely, he gave the order to collapse the black holes._

_Recovering from her emotional outburst, Emma stood against the bare wall near the stairs to the crew quarters. Exhausted in body and spirit, she didn't hear her bond brother's approach until he was close enough to murmur in her ear._

"_I know you're upset, and I understand why. If we are to defeat the Daleks, however, we must carry on, no matter the sacrifices made. You're not a monster, Emma. You have done what has been necessary, nothing more. Even my brother would agree."_

"_Tell that to Rouchmel and his people," she ruefully muttered, but he ignored her bitterness._

_Beseechingly, he began to pull her towards the ship's corridors. "Come, you and Hallon must be famished. You should eat before you collapse. All will see today as a great victory. We have managed to do what even my brother has not. We have wiped out an entire Dalek fleet in a single blow. Perhaps the war will be over sooner than you hope."_

"_The war will never be over," she muttered despondently, but she followed him just the same._

_They sat alone in a cramped military mess. When the silence became too pronounced, the man went through the motions of making tea. Pouring boiling water into a porcelain teapot, he studied the now familiar redhead. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes._

"_I am sorry. It hurts me to see so many innocents die as well."_

"_No it doesn't," she snapped. "If it did, you wouldn't stand for it. But, we're all too busy trying to save ourselves that we allow those we've always protected to be crushed underneath our feet."_

"_You know that's not true," he answered more gently than Rick would have. The Time Agent thought that the woman was being unreasonable. Daleks were known for their ruthlessness and cold determination. In his book, killing a breeding ground and an auxiliary fleet was worth almost any price. _

"_If we fought as nobly as our ideals, the Daleks would have defeated us long ago. As staggering as the losses to the lesser species have been, the carnage if the Daleks won would be incomprehensible."_

_Resting her head in her hands, she rubbed her temples, but the tension in her body wouldn't dissipate. "That doesn't help me sleep at night."_

"_No, I wouldn't think so. If it's any consolation, my brother feels the same."_

_She actually groaned aloud, shocking Rick, who stood still in the shadows even though he knew that no one would notice him._

"_I was so horrible to him the last time I saw him, Brax. I told him he has a tendency to destroy the things he loves, and now he's being forced to do just that."_

"_He loves you, you know. He'll not hold it against you. You were grief-stricken and not thinking rationally."_

"_I wanted to hurt him, like I felt he had hurt me. I never imagined it would come to this."_

_The man placed his hand over hers. "I know, and he knows, too. You'll see. Once this war is over it will be as before."_

"_It won't," she answered bitterly. "It's been too long. He's moved on, and so have I. He has Romana and I had Rouchmel. I know you won't understand, but I mourn the man I betrayed every time I close my eyes. I should never have stuck to the plan. There had to have been an easier way to delay the production of the Dalekanium. I ruined everything."_

_Irritation passed over the man's face, but Ilsa was looking down at her teacup and didn't notice. Schooling his features, he squeezed her hand, eyeing her sympathetically._

"_The Healers told me, Em. You don't have to pretend with me."_

_The woman's face flushed, and then she suddenly put her head on the table and began to sob. The man awkwardly patted her on the back, his concern genuine._

"_You should rest. You're exhausted and overemotional. I should have seen this coming. In your condition, you have no business being in the field right now. When we return to Gallifrey, I'm putting you on convalescent leave."_

_She had bristled at that, but Rick would never know how the conversation had ended. Before he could blink, he had returned to Greece. Ilsa glared at him._

"Enjoy your jaunt into my past?"

Enjoy was not a word he would have used. Everything he had seen confused him, although he was beginning to draw some disturbing conclusions. Pushing thoughts of the Daleks temporarily aside, he focused on the woman standing before him.

"Rouchmel's concubine, what is she to you? Why is she your self-image? If I'm right, we're both on Tuem. You're the girl in my cell, the one who won't talk."

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer, and then she sighed as if in defeat. "She died when I was born."

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It had been staring him in the face all this time. "The eye-color, the hair—she's your mother. That's why you have all her memories."

She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying his assumption, but she didn't need to. He couldn't believe that he hadn't made the connection sooner.

"Why don't you look like yourself? This is your mind."

Again, she hesitated, but his time, she appeared to be puzzled rather than weighing her answer.

"I don't know what I look like."

Confusion, anger, indignation, curiosity—they warred for dominance until he simply didn't question it. He had a feeling there'd be plenty of time for questions later. Since she'd finally given him some answers, he decided to repay her with a small gift. Invitingly, he held out his hand.

"Come here."

She approached hesitantly. Gently, he pulled her against him, his right arm snaking around her waist. When he rested his left hand on top of her head, she inquisitively looked up. His eyes sparkling with playful mischief, he took some of her hair in his fingers to hold in front of her face.

"You know you're a redhead, right?"

She nodded dumbly, and he bit back a smile. She really didn't understand what he was about to do for her.

"Close your eyes."

When she complied, he lightly traced the outline of her face with the pads of his fingers. "You have an oval face. Your chin juts out just like your father's, and I'm afraid you have his nose. It's rather severe. But, hey, don't worry, your mother's cheekbones more than compensate. And, you've got her eyes. They're gorgeous, sweetheart."

Before she could say anything, he once again placed his hand on the top of her head. "You're shorter than your mother, by a good four inches. That's okay, though, because you're bone structure is more delicate."

Immediately, he dropped his hold on her waist and placed both hands on her neck, sliding them down to her shoulders and under her arms. With a practiced slowness, he skimmed the sides of her breasts with his fingers, causing her to stiffen. He moved his hands quickly away, however, tracing the contour of her waist before settling on her hips and pulling her closer.

"Turn around and open your eyes, sweetheart."

She gaped at the sight before her bursting into tears. It wasn't the reaction he had expected. Reassuringly, he stepped in front of her image.

"You are beautiful, Ilsa—the best of your mother and father. I don't know how much of her memories you have, or what conclusions you've drawn, but from the little I saw, it looked like she deeply regretted her actions. Don't judge her too harshly. She chose to have you, after all."

"I resemble Rouchmel," she stated in a daze, then collapsed against him, obviously overwhelmed.

Mistaking the reason for her upset, he did his best to soothe her fears. "Hey, it's okay. Civilization on Galbon was destroyed thousands of years ago by the Daleks. The only reason anyone knows about your parents and the civil war is because of the archaeological excavations that started about a hundred years ago. No one's going to recognize you, I promise. Your secret's safe."

She only cried harder, and he realized with a jolt that in her relative timeline, the planet's destruction must have been a much more recent affair. She was what? Fifteen? He remembered his own grief at that age, and wished he had been more sensitive in telling her that her father was nothing more than a legend to be investigated by scholars.

He shouldn't have shocked her like that. It was obvious that she had lived a very controlled, sheltered life. How could anyone go through their childhood and adolescence without seeing an image or reflection of themselves? The only place he could possibly think of that would allow for that was . . . a prison. Had she escaped one captivity only to be trapped in another? Had her mother's people loathed her because she was half-Galbonian? Had they gone so far as to punish her for her mother's death?

As she continued to sob, he focused on comforting her. By the time she had calmed, she had managed to integrate her physical appearance into her self-image. Seeing her so much younger brought out his underlying gallantry, and he spent quite a while reassuring her that everything would turn out for the best even as he wondered how much longer the Time Agency would keep them alive.


	8. Bound by Fate

Emma could hear his thoughts as easily as her own, but seeing her outward appearance had shocked her to the core. Her first reaction upon seeing her image had been one of disbelief, then mortification. She surely must have worn her feelings on her sleeve in her previous regeneration to end up looking as she did. If Brax could see her now, he'd restrict her to the Citadel for the rest of the war. It had been impossible to hold back her grief when she was so viscerally reminded of her betrayal.

She knew she had to carry the lie through to the bitter end, but it was so damn hard. He was in her mind. She could hear every thought in that ridiculously transparent brain of his. He wasn't supposed to care what happened to her. He was supposed to look out for himself, to plot and scheme and do everything in his power to betray her.

For her sake, he needed to be selfish, deceitful, devious. How could she stand by and let him die otherwise? How could she gain peace if her final act was one of treachery?

Having come no closer to an answer to her sudden dilemma, she wiped her eyes, smiling tremulously at him.

"Thanks, for showing me what I look like and for . . . well, you seem to understand my emotions much better than I do. Underneath it all, you're a good person, Rick. But, I think you should try to get out of my mind. I'm not sure how patient our jailers will be when they find both of us inexplicably unconscious."

He preened at her praise, and it was like a knife wound in her gut. She sensed that no one but his father had called him a good person before.

"You're right about that, princess. Orgons aren't the most patient of people, and I've ticked off almost every one of them. They'd probably enjoy a reason to kill me."

Her hearts started pounding. "Orgons?"

"Yeah, that's what those ape-like morons are called. Even the warden's one, not that it takes a whole lot of brains to run a place like this, but still, I think the Agency's slipping myself."

She still couldn't believe her ears. "The warden's not a Judoon?"

"No, should he be?"

"I think—"

She started to slip into unconsciousness. Her head injury was simply too severe to focus her thoughts any longer. With her last bit of strength, she forced him out of her mind as she begged Death to take her.

* * *

><p>Suddenly, Rick was alone in his own body, sorely bereft. Groaning, he attempted to sit up, only belatedly remembering that the Orgon had hit him in the stomach. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to find himself in the prison's infirmary, which was not as reassuring as one might think. At least he wasn't restrained in any way, and no one came rushing in to demand what the hell had happened to him.<p>

Ilsa lay on the bed next to him, her arms and legs securely strapped to the metal bedframe. Her bruises were still swollen and purple, and no one had bothered to cover her. Dried blood spotted the sheets at the apex of her legs, and his hands clenched into fists as he was forcibly reminded of her treatment at the hands of his sadistic partner.

After unsuccessfully attempting to rouse her, he lay on his bed, thinking furiously. If she didn't speak—and he still wasn't certain that she spoke a language the Time Agency would recognize—then, they would both be killed. If she did speak, he might scrape by with his life, but hers would be unending torture until she finally broke or died.

Okay, speaking was out. Opening her mouth was an eventual death sentence preceded by excruciating torture. That left execution or escape. While death was the far more likely outcome, he focused on escape. Unfortunately, the only weakness of a prison such as this was its employees. Security really was too sophisticated to crack. So, their best bet was bribing someone to help them. But, who?

Orgons were too stupid to be bribed and far too strong to beat in hand to hand combat. Scratch the guards then. The scientists? Too nosy, he decided. They might be motivated to keep their prized specimen alive, but that would only be trading one captor for another. The list had grown depressingly short when he thought of the man he currently wanted to kill.

Ninety-Six enjoyed inflicting pain and was more than halfway down the road to insanity, which made the idea promising and extremely dangerous. He might do it on a whim to antagonize the establishment. He might be persuaded to sneak them out in order to keep the girl for himself. Or, Ninety-Six might make his life a living hell before killing him slowly for merely suggesting it. With that psychopath, one never knew. Even before they'd been partnered, there had been rumors floating around that he had failed murder rehab—twice. He would definitely be a last resort.

There was no time like the present to get in his good graces, however. Knowing he was under constant surveillance, Rick made a show of visiting the facilities and looking around for a change of clothes. After a few minutes of practiced wandering, he looked directly into the surveillance device.

"Hey, Ninety-Six! What the hell happened to me? One minute I'm carrying your prisoner to the infirmary, and the next thing I know I'm waking up here. Some new clothes and some food might be nice. I'm starving. Thought you might like it if I earn my supper again."

The newly appointed Chief Interrogator was at the door to the infirmary before Rick had finished speaking. Grinning in anticipation, his hands down his lover's chest.

"Sex first. You can eat my cum if you're really that hungry."

Rick smiled devilishly, well-practiced in hiding his true feelings. "Something salty before the main course. I like it.

With that, he left the infirmary in the arms of a man he had truly grown to hate. Sparing a brief glance at the battered girl still unconscious on the bed, he could only hope that, somehow, he could keep her safe.

* * *

><p>Emma woke screaming from a familiar nightmare to find she was bound to a bed with something clamped tightly over her mouth and nose. Frantically, she assessed her situation. Prison infirmary, she finally decided as she tested her restraints. The air she was breathing had a higher oxygen concentration than normal; her catheter hadn't been changed recently; and the hydration solution they were pumping in her veins contained slightly less salt than her body needed. Even so, she felt better than she had since regenerating, although she was disoriented and couldn't say how much time had passed since falling unconscious.<p>

Her muffled screams had alerted the staff to her wakening, however, and she was soon surrounded by five men. Thrashing about, she didn't have to pretend to be frightened. They had her completely at their mercy, and she no longer wished to put her resolution to die to the test. While it might be the only rational solution to her predicament, she had no objection to trying a few irrational ones first.

"Shit, she's having some kind of fit. Get me a sedative."

The voice had come from one of the men; she was struggling too hard to know which one. Since she had no intention of confirming the fact that she understood them, she continued to flail. Her situation really was hopeless. Perhaps they would accidently slip her something fatal, and she could accept the inevitably of the death sooner rather than later.

"Get that Time Agent first," another one suggested as he watched her like she was an interesting lab rat. "Her interrogator told us he'd been taking care of her, remember? If he can't calm her down, we can always go with the sedative later."

The thought of seeing Rick almost stilled her, but she kept up the act, hoping they would wait on the sedative. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that he was some sort of knight able to rescue the princess, but he was her best source of information. If she could communicate with him telepathically like she had before, then perhaps he'd be willing to answer some questions.

She had exhausted herself by the time he arrived, incapable of doing more than flinching away and putting up a fight whenever someone tried to touch her. To keep it believable, she reacted in the same manner when he sat down beside her, but in reality, she was delighted to see him.

When he made no move to touch her, however, doubts wormed their way into her thoughts. Had she imagined his presence in her mind, using his image to cling to sanity as the damage to her brain trapped her in memories? Or had he come to regret the rapport she believed they had developed, and now wanted nothing to do with her? If so, he would betray her at the first opportunity. Not able to face that possibility, she squeezed her eyes shut tight.

"How long has she been awake?" she heard him ask.

The man who had wanted to sedate her answered snidely. "An hour, hour and a half? We called for you as soon as she woke, but your interrogator said you were resisting him and needed to be taught a lesson. Funny, I don't see any whip marks."

She was disappointed when Rick ignored the comment to ask another question. Was his ex-partner questioning him about her, or was he simply using him for brutish sex? Lost in thought, it took her a moment to focus on the conversation that buzzed around her. She had missed something, but could infer the question from the response.

"No, she was worse. Luke here wanted to sedate her right off, but I thought you might be able to calm her since you've been feeding her."

"That was ten days ago," he replied, and she almost gasped in shock. She'd been unconscious for ten days? She'd known her head injury had been severe, but that was ridiculous.

"Not to her," the voice replied reasonably. "Besides, someone needs to calm her down enough so your friend can question her."

He had emphasized the words friend and question to the point that Emma knew exactly what had been happening to Rick. She pulled at her bonds in agitation. She wanted to rip the smug blonde to pieces before disintegrating him into nothingness.

Rick didn't react well to the man's insinuation, and took it out on the speaker. "Well, maybe if you people would untie her and get all the tubes out of her, she might calm down on her own! She's practically a kid, for fuck's sake! Did it ever occur to you that she might be scared to wake up tied down in an unfamiliar place? Hell, does anyone even know if she understands Standard?"

To prove his point, she cowered away from his shouting as much as the restraints would allow. Instinctively, she tensed when he touched her arm, but soon relaxed as he gently stroked her face.

His voice was familiar and soothing as she allowed the tension in her muscles to drain away. "Hey, it's okay, Ilsa. You're in the prison hospital. You—"

"You named her?" a man whose voice she didn't recognize asked in surprised indignation. "What do you think she is, some kind of pet? She's a damn terrorist!"

He didn't respond, continuing to speak to her in a calm, gentle voice. Her hearts soared. He had called her Ilsa. No matter the consequences, he had not been a delusion of her injured mind. Cracking open her eyes, she saw his smile. It was warm, encouraging and showed off his dimples. He had no intention of divulging her secret.

As she stared into his eyes, she suddenly gasped with unexpected pain. One of the scientists had unceremoniously yanked the catheter out, and Rassilon, it had hurt. She did her best to tighten into a ball to cope with the stinging. Rick was livid.

"Why the hell did you have to do it like that? If you want her hysterical again, you can let me go back to my interrogation. Ninety-Six had a breakthrough, and let me tell you, it was sweet."

"Your partner's a sick bastard. You know that, right?"

Jack simply glared, and the men busied themselves with removing Emma's oxygen mask and IV. Under his watchful gaze, they were not as rough as they would have been, just the opposite in fact. The sight of her naked, thrashing about on the bed, had aroused all of them to various degrees, and they were sure to let their hands linger much longer than what was medically necessary.

When the lead researcher kneaded his hand against her thigh, the others began to whistle and encourage him. Emma pulled against her restraints, only partially acting. Intellectually, she knew rape was a standard method of torture used on prisoners, male and female. She had, in fact, allowed her interrogator to rape her in the hope he would become impassioned and kill her outright. Another violation at this point should matter very little.

She knew all that, but it was very difficult to put stoicism into practice. The beginning of a scream simmered in her throat when Rick's voice cut through the scientists' randy cheers like a laser on glass.

"Who's the sick bastard now? I gotta warn you, though, Ninety-Six doesn't like anyone playing with his toys. He's a possessive kinda guy. So, unless you have the balls to face him, and, frankly, it doesn't look like you do, I suggest you get your hand off of her. Now."

The man's hand disappeared behind his back. Chancing a look, Emma saw that his face had turned a strange shade of purple, and he was panting like a bull about to charge. Truly fearing for Rick's life, she watched wide-eyed as the stubby man attempted to control his temper.

When he grabbed a medical grade laser off one of the equipment tables, Emma thought she might be sick. As much as she appreciated Rick's gesture, it had been a foolish one. She watched with growing dread as the scientist activated a tool that could easily slice her cellmate in half.

"Shit, Luke, I had no idea you were into that much kink. Remind me to hide the knives if I ever invite you over for a drink."

Emma never could precisely determine how she managed to stay in character when she saw the smug bastard with the glaring Napoleon complex swagger into the room. Really, she could have kissed him—after a few swift kicks to the crotch. Her cellmate was not about to be fileted on her behalf. Whimpering with patent fear, she strained to stay away from the man who had raped her. Even she had to admit that the move was more symbolic than effective while tied practically spread-eagle.

Spread eagle. Rassilon! She was tied spread-eagle to the bed completely helpless as her sadistic interrogator leered at her body. Suddenly, her mind supplied fifty-four different ways he could torture her in such a vulnerable position and she began to panic. Straining against the cloth and metal which held her, she started gasping for air, unable to catch her breath.

"Ilsa? Can you hear me? Hey, it's okay, sweetheart. He's not going to hurt you right now; I promise. No one in this room is going to hurt you right now. Just calm down, honey. You've got to calm down."

She couldn't, though. The image of her potential torture was simply too overwhelming. Mortified, she realized that she was suffering from a panic attack and had no means to control it. It was only after the sting of the hypospray that her body began to relax. An insistent lassitude pulled her to the welcoming darkness, and she fervently prayed to Time that she not wake. Death was preferable to the shame of being such a coward.

* * *

><p>Livid, Rick clenched his jaw so tightly that his head ached as he watched Ninety-Six torture and degrade Ilsa yet again. After seven days, the poor girl was practically comatose. Through it all, she had stared blankly at the ceiling, and he sincerely hoped that her mind was far away from the trauma to which her body was currently being subjected.<p>

An entire week of breaking his promise to protect her and he wasn't even allowed to offer her the comfort of his shoulder to cry on. Not that she had cried. Shrieked, yes, but she hadn't cried, not even when his sorry excuse for a partner had carved his initials on her stomach and had refused to heal it with the tissue regenerator.

He feared greatly that she had retreated within her mind to the point where her personality would never reemerge. With only three days until their death sentences, however, he couldn't fault her for that. It was only her bravery that kept him from committing a very satisfactory, but suicidal, act. He was the only one who understood her act of defiance, and he would serve as witness to her courage until his last breath.

Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Rick to understand that something significant had changed in the room. Abruptly, the scientists in the white coats had rushed in, pulling Ninety-Six off his victim. Staring at the scene with a sick feeling of dread, he belatedly understood that Ilsa's hearts had stopped beating.

After four electrical shocks and an injection into the chest of something that briefly froze her face in a rictus of pain, they retreated to the corridor. He could hear their shouts of outrage while they warned her interrogator not to kill her before the deadline. As their voices retreated and Ninety-Six did not return, he belatedly realized that he had finally been left alone with her.

Without thinking, he scrambled to her side, taking her hand. It was one of the few places on her body left relatively uninjured. Her mental shields were very weak, and it was easy to slip into her mind. He wasn't prepared, however, for the overwhelming feeling of shame that permeated her consciousness. Incredulous, he realized that she considered herself nothing more than a coward.

"Ilsa?"

He searched for her through the red grass, the corridors of closed doorways, even the image of the cell they shared, but she was nowhere to be found. Cautiously, he began to explore more of her psyche, calling out for her until he could shout no more. Even then, he pressed onwards, crawling over dim memories until he reached a dark enclosure where he heard her sobbing so forcefully that her breaths came out in loud, choking gasps.

Once again, he felt her deep sense of shame and cowardice, and it pained him to think that she judged herself so harshly.

"I don't know why you think you're a coward," he told her quietly, reaching through the darkness to place his hand comfortingly on her back. "You're right. He's a sick bastard, and you are very brave to endure what he's done to you without speaking. I know it must be tempting sometimes, sweetheart."

"I'm not brave!" she argued. "I'm tired! I just want to die. Why won't he kill me? Why can't I have peace?"

He almost argued that they were both much closer to finding that final peace, but he didn't want to remind her that his life was entwined with hers. He'd resigned himself to his death. His life had never amounted to much anyway. His only regret was that he would die never knowing his brother's fate.

Carefully, he withdrew from her mind, hoping that she would understand his need to comfort her in the flesh. Pulling her onto his lap, he gently uncurled her bent frame until he could see her face.

Smiling as he wiped away her tears, he ignored her bruises to concentrate on her most alluring feature. "There, that's much better. Your eyes are beautiful, Ilsa. Don't hide them from me."

Gazing into those aquamarine orbs, he abruptly sharpened his resolve. He would save her at any cost. As soon as Ninety-Six returned, he would trade anything the bastard wanted for her life. For once, he didn't care what happened to him. He might have destroyed his future at the age of twelve, but that didn't mean he had to idly watch his sadistic partner destroy hers. No one, especially her, deserved that fate.

Without thought, his lips sought hers. For an instant, he feared she would pull away, too traumatized to accept what he offered. Instead, she surprised him yet again, and for a brief second, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be a good man. Who else but a good man could deserve the affection of one such as she?

* * *

><p>Stunned by the feel of Rick's lips against hers, Emma allowed herself to briefly forget that they were in a cell with death looming ever closer. Instead, she took everything he offered, hesitantly returning it. Humans never ceased to amaze her, this one in particular. He was as noble as Rouchmel in his own way. She knew all too well that she signed his death sentence with hers, but he hadn't once thought of betraying her.<p>

Little wonder that He had become so enamored with the lesser species during His travels. Some of them were definitely greater in spirit than any Time Lord could hope to aspire. She was sure that in happier circumstances, He would approve of the smiling young man who, facing death, thought more of her own wellbeing than his. Perhaps, in happier circumstances, the two could have been friends. She had a feeling that such a brave, humorous, self-sacrificing human was just His type.

"I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to protect you, sweetheart. You don't deserve this. If there's any way to save you, I'll find it. I promise."

His whispered confession against her ear ultimately proved to be her undoing. She couldn't hold back her tears, crying not for herself, but for him. She was old, tired, and deserved her fate. But, his timeline blazed so brightly that she couldn't even follow it. The thought of it being snuffed out as easily as a candle was almost too much to bear. Why had their fates suddenly been bound together? Why did his death have to be on her hands?


	9. Honey and Vinegar

Author's notes - Jack and Emma both decide to save the other, and nothing quite goes to plan. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>"So, let me get this straight. You're willing to do anything, <strong>anything<strong> if I just stroll into our little terrorist's cell, take her by the hand and take her off Tuem. Have you lost your fucking mind, Six?"

Agent Ninety-Six stared hard at the supplicant sitting in front of him, clearly thinking the roguish man had finally gone insane.

Rick gave a self-deprecating smile, his eyes twinkling with false cheer. "Well, I had hoped you'd take me too. I'm not really looking forward to the whole execution thing, and Orgons aren't really my type. Besides, it looked like you were enjoying yourself in there. I thought you might like to take her someplace where you don't have to be so restrained."

There was a long pause, and Rick was sure his ex-partner was about to laugh in his face. The smell of pain and despair that pervaded the interrogation room rose up and made him nauseous. What the hell had he been thinking? His plan could never work.

When Ninety-Six began to speak of specifics, he couldn't believe his luck.

"I'd have to stage it to look like you were the one breaking her out, you know. I'm not putting my neck on the line for little miss ice queen. And, you'd have to kill all the guards and the techno-geeks to make it look believable."

"Not a problem," he answered immediately, a look of satisfaction on his face. At least his former partner hadn't vetoed the idea outright. Besides, after the way the scientists had treated Ilsa, they deserved death just as much as the Orgons.

His ex-partner's eyes gleamed with avarice and amusement.

"Would you be willing to assassinate the top echelon at HQ? I never did like those pencil pushers."

"Sure," he answered glibly. Once the three of them were safely off Tuem, he planned on stealing Ninety-Six's Vortex Manipulator in order to take Ilsa to the one planet where she might be safe.

Gleefully, the agent acquiesced. "Then, we have a deal so long as you do one more thing for me before I break the two of you out."

Rick couldn't hide his delight. He was going to save her! No doubt Ninety-Six wanted him to submit one last time. Getting roughed up a bit was a small price to pay for her freedom. Besides, he'd soon be able to teach his fellow Time Agent a valuable lesson about hubris.

"Whatever you want, Nine."

Deadpan, he replied, "I want you to ride your little pet like the whore she is because I'm getting a little tired of the ice queen's passive act, and I have a feeling you might just get a reaction from her where I don't."

Rick's jaw clenched in anger and his eyes lost their sparkle to be consumed by a calm, dangerous rage. "Bastard."

"Takes one to know one."

Before Rick could launch himself at the smug blonde, however, two guards stepped into the interrogation room to restrain him. Struggling, he realized that he was the one who would soon learn a lesson about hubris. Steeling himself, he waited for a blow that never came.

Instead, Ninety-Six did something much worse. He took out a small atomizer full of a golden, glowing liquid and held it near Rick's face.

"I could make you, you know. One or two sprays with this, and you'd agree to fuck her any way I want. Too bad she seems immune to the effects. The techno-geeks tried it on her during one of their experiments, but she was completely nonreactive. Maybe she's the ice queen after all. Or maybe she was grown, not born, just like a few of them think. I don't care. All I care about it getting her to talk."

Rick's stomach churned. The thought of hurting Ilsa in that manner brought bile into his throat. The scum before him was sicker than he'd ever realized. Privately, he vowed that he would kill the bastard if it was the last thing he ever did.

Regretfully, Ninety-Six pocketed the spray. "As entertaining as it would be to watch, it wouldn't make her talk. She doesn't care about herself. I couldn't help but notice, though, Six, she seems to care a great deal about you. Maybe making her your pet wasn't such a bad idea after all. Dogs are incredibly loyal to their masters. In fact, if their master is in danger, they go to great lengths to save him, don't you agree?"

Shit! He knew exactly what was about to happen, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Bravado was his only weapon left, and he desperately used it to the best of his ability.

"You always were somewhat dim. Your dog analogy is perfect, but not for the reason you think. She doesn't speak, idiot! Who knows where she came from? If she had that much artron energy surrounding her, she could be from millions of years in the future or from the beginning of the universe. Why the hell does everyone assume she understands Galactic Standard or anything else we might recognize as a language? Did you ever think she might have been a test subject? Maybe she was sent through that transporter precisely because she couldn't give away any secrets! For once in your life, think with the brain at the top of your body, Nine! She's somebody's lab rat, nothing more."

Seething, he felt Ninety-Six's hot breath against his ear. He didn't dare react in the presence of the two Orgons. He had a feeling they were looking for an excuse to start his torture early.

"You better hope she's more than a lab rat, bitch. Because it's going to be a very long three days for you if she doesn't beg us to stop."

Struggling vainly against the guards, Rick couldn't help but feel a shudder of fear. After witnessing Ilsa's ordeal, he knew that Ninety-Six was capable of inflicting the most excruciating agonies on his subjects. Three days of nonstop torture might just seem like an eternity.

* * *

><p>Emma rubbed her temples, trying to relieve her head of the sinus pressure such a lengthy bout of crying invariably wrought. Astonishingly, she felt better after sobbing in the imprisoned Time Agent's arms. Nothing about their situation had changed, but she had abruptly remembered the reason she fought. It wasn't for revenge, although she had ample justification. Nor was it for hatred or fear, although Daleks inspired both. No, she fought for hope.<p>

She had hope in a future without the Daleks, hope in the lesser species and their wonderful sense of humanity, and hope in individuals like Rouchmel, who had wanted so very much for his people, and Rick, who kept his promise when there was every reason to break it.

Most importantly, no matter if she survived, she had the hope that He would somehow pull victory out of defeat. He, with his mad, crazy ideas that always seemed to work, He would find a way to turn the tide of a war that only the grimmest realists would acknowledge they were slowly losing. He, no matter His self-doubts, no matter His running, He was the most courageous of them all. And, whether He was called the General, the Doctor or the Destroyer of Worlds, she knew within every fiber of her being that he was the Oncoming Storm from which the Daleks would perish.

Her lips curved into a secretive smile. She wasn't alone. She could sense the life force of her bond mate as easily as she could see Gallifrey's moons on a cloudless night. She would not die unlamented. She would not be a footnote. And, in her last moments, she would make Him proud.

* * *

><p>"Don't hurt him."<p>

Her plea was made to the ground, her eyes downcast. Ironically, no one in the interrogation room heard her as they secured Rick to the wall, their intent all too clear. Her voice, so long unused, was foreign to her ears, raspy, and much too soft. Having committed to speaking, however, her next words were a confident, booming command.

"Release him and I'll talk. Touch him, and these are the last words you'll ever hear me say."

Six pairs of eyes snapped to hers. A grain of sand could have fallen onto the floor of the interrogation room, and likely everyone would have heard it. Two guards, a pair of technicians, and the Chief Interrogator himself regarded her in astonishment, too dumbstruck to reply. Even Rick was at a loss for words, but the anguish was all too plain on his face.

She seized the moment of silence. "Give me proof of his freedom, and I'll talk as long as you'll listen. Otherwise, you may start your interrogation. Knowing how much violence excites you, Agent, I give him four hours before he passes out from blood loss, sixteen until he goes into septic shock. You should really sanitize your instruments between uses, you know. That leather whip's a breeding ground for germs."

Ninety-Six's mouth gaped open in an undignified 'O' before he snapped it closed. Sneering, he attempted to regain the upper hand, but his expression was more pathetic than intimidating.

"Well, well, well, aren't you full of surprises, ginger? And, exactly how do you expect me to prove to you that I've kept my end of the bargain?"

"Give him your Vortex Manipulator, now."

It took Agent Ninety-Six less than a minute to decide that her plan worked. He hadn't wanted deprive himself of the only other Time Agent who could put up with him, even if the man had a weakness for strays. The woman drilling her eyes into his had endured a week of every type of coercion, humiliation and degradation he could devise, and she had not spoken in all that time. Ceding to her demands was the only shot they had of getting some answers. Smirking, he personally cut the ropes that bound his lover's wrists. Almost negligently, he tossed his wrist strap to his partner.

"You'd better report to HQ before they put out a shoot to kill order on you. I don't envy you the debriefing. Be sure to tell them how well I played our little terrorist here. She didn't stand a chance."

Rubbing his wrists to restore blood circulation, Rick made a weak attempt at a joke. "Sure thing. But, I'm going to tell them how well I played her first. Haven't you heard the Earth saying, 'you trap more flies with honey than with vinegar'? Well, honey, you were certainly the vinegar."

His partner was magnanimous in his victory. "You do that, Six. Hopefully, they'll have an assignment for us by the time I get back. I'm going soft sitting around in this prison all day. Ask them for a nice massacre or something."

Rick flashed out of existence without replying. Emma was glad to see him go. His fake nonchalance had been too strained, his voice too shaky for him to dupe the sadist for long. She only hoped that he would report to Tempus Tor rather than do something foolish like plan a rescue. She'd heard that the Agency did not take kindly to rogue agents. If he could convince them of his loyalty, he'd suffer no consequences for his kindness.

With the bargaining chip gone, however, the balance of power once again shifted in favor of the Time Agency. Ninety-Six considered her appraisingly.

"So, are you going to hold up your end of the bargain, princess? We're all eager to hear what you have to say. Let's start out with what made you a terrorist in the first place, shall we?"

"Certainly." She grinned, clearly enjoying herself. If there was one thing a Time Lord could do, it was talk. "I suppose you could say it all started with my love of ancient Greece . . . ."

* * *

><p>To avoid being arrested on the spot, Rick teleported directly to the debriefing room at Agency headquarters. The clerk, a curvy pink Jathaa, didn't bat any one of her four eyes at his abrupt appearance.<p>

"Agent Sixty-Nine, always a pleasure." She giggled, and he belatedly remembered that they had shared several hypervodkas the evening after his previous debriefing.

"Likewise, pinkie. You think we'll have time for a drink tonight? I discovered this fantastic little bar on Balhoon that makes the most exquisite flaming mojitos."

She blinked all four of her eyes at once. "I don't think it will be tonight, you lovely human. They've got you scheduled for sixteen hours. Whatever you did, it's piqued their interest."

"I bet it has," he ruefully replied, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "Okay, we'll do it later, doll."

He had almost made it past the reception area when she called out. "Oh, and Sixty-Nine, they told me to make sure you surrendered your partner's Vortex Manipulator."

Sighing, he turned around, returning to deposit Agent Ninety-Six's wrist strap into the evidence box. "You know how naked I feel without one of those, Jeanie."

The thought of him naked sent a purple flush into her cheeks. "Too bad they don't want your clothes as evidence too. I've seen the recruiting poster. You're torso is substantial."

He stifled a snort; interspecies turn-ons never ceased to amuse him. I'm glad you think so. Maybe, the next time we go out I can take off my shirt for you."

She turned a shade of scarlet, and this time he couldn't hide his grin. "I'll take that as a yes. See you later, Jeanie."

"Oh I hope so," she loudly gushed as Rick once again made his way to the main debriefing room.

His grin faded as soon as he was out of her sight. Sixteen hours was an inordinate amount of time for a debriefing. Hoping for the best, he grasped the handle and opened the door. Sitting at a large conference table, flanked by two Orgon goons, were Agents One and Two. They were intently watching a large vidscreen on the wall, which appeared to be playing the last nineteen days of his life. Hell, he was well and truly fucked.

* * *

><p>Emma had been talking about Greek culture nonstop for three hours and seventeen minutes. Once she had gotten going, it was like a dam had burst. And, then, an unmistakable sound stopped her cold.<p>

"Con-**clu**-sion con-**firmed**. Pris-on-**er** is **not** de-**fect**-ive. Be-**gin** in-**terr**-o-**ga**-tion."

Unconsciously, she bit a fingernail as she whipped around, looking for the Dalek who had spoken. So great was her panic that it took her a moment to understand her enemy was not in the room with her, but had, in fact, spoken over the comm.

"Sorry, doll. I think that's my cue to leave. The title of Chief Interrogator was a trifle overblown. All they asked me to do was make you talk. They didn't care what you said. And, the Agency still needs plausible deniability. I don't really want to be killed for accidently seeing our allies' faces."

Bordering on shock, she couldn't think of a comeback. Dully, she watched Agent Ninety-Six walk out of the interrogation room. The two technicians and the Orgons remained, waiting impassively until three Daleks encased in dull gray Dalekanium rolled into the room. The lead one pushed a cart that held a device she instantly recognized. Rassilon, she was well and truly fucked.


	10. Vortex Manipulator

Author's Notes - A very sincere thank you to ceeare and Wannabe Darklord for reviewing. It's nice to know people are interested in this story. Yes, the rescue is in this chapter, but if you've read any of my other stories, you'll know that nothing is that simple, so don't expect a resolution anytime soon. The writing for this is going very well. I will try to update more often. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>Though extremely stressful, Rick's debriefing went better than he could have ever expected. The disastrous session with Ninety-Six where he had begged for his cellmate's life was not part of the surveillance footage. Without that key piece of evidence, his outward actions could all be explained away, which he did with alacrity.<p>

Sitting between the two senior agents, he spun a plausible yarn. "Yeah, Ninety-Six and I decided to play good cop/bad cop almost from the beginning. His position was perfect for the position of bad cop, while mine was more suited to comforting the girl and gaining her trust."

Agent One, a thin brunette who looked hot even at eighty, quietly interrupted. "From reviewing the footage, it's my understanding that your partner wasn't open to the suggestion at first."

Rick played with his empty coffee cup. "Well, Ninety-Six's proclivities have always clouded his judgment. He likes pain, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it does sometimes make him more resistant to other methods of interrogation."

Agent Two, a portly man who looked to be in his early fifties (complete with a receding hairline) quickly interjected. "We're well aware of your partner's appetites, Agent Sixty-Nine. Rest assured that you may speak freely here. His pleasure in others' pain has its place within the Agency, and nothing you say to us will be used against him. I'm more interested in knowing what you gave the prisoner the first night of her incarceration with you, and why."

He smiled affably. This was a question he could handle; the Agency wasn't going to punish him for saving her life, not after she had promised to talk. "Her hearts were slowing to the point of stopping. Let me tell you, that sounds weird to say even now. I've never seen a humanoid that didn't have reptilian ancestry with two hearts. Still wondering about that, to be honest."

When they didn't comment, he swiftly continued. "I smelled the Serum 78 on her breath, and figured she was having a reaction. One of the scientists had given me a packet of stimulants as a thank you for . . . ." He paused searching for a word that wouldn't result in a reprimand.

"We're aware of your appetites as well, Sixty-Nine," Agent One impatiently informed him. "You will not be punished for performing sexual favors for the staff. Does that help your answer?

Rick deliberately flushed, deciding that an appearance of chagrin might not go amiss. "A thank you for a favor, then. I used the stimulant to save her life. I didn't think the Agency would lift my sentence if she died the first night under my care."

Agent One scribbled furiously on an old fashioned piece of paper with an antique ballpoint pen. Reading upside down, Rick could see her latest note: _Serum 78 has detrimental effect on subject_. She noticed his scrutiny and blandly asked him to continue.

"So, you saved her life and fed her in an attempt to create a bond with her. Very good initiative, Agent. Now, we have a question about this scene here."

The video shifted to the point when he had attempted to carry Ilsa to the infirmary, and had fallen unconscious for his pains. Rick shifted in his seat, hoping his nervousness didn't show. He had a feeling that the two most senior agents had been much more observant than the morons in lab coats. He would have to be somewhat honest, and very, very careful.

"That's when I attempted to enter her mind. She had a concussion, and I thought that if she didn't talk, it might be easier to communicate with her telepathically. It was a stupid plan, I admit. I ended up passing out."

The agents suddenly became very interested. "Were you able to make contact?"

"Nah, her barriers are really strong. No idea whether they're natural or practiced, but I couldn't get into her mind at all."

"They're natural and practiced, Sixty-Nine, and I would have been astonished if you had been able to breech them. She's not human, and her psi ranking is at least a hundred times greater than yours. Kudos to you for trying, though. You really did give your assignment some thought."

"Thanks." Alarm bells were sounding in his head. They had known she was a telepath. What else did they know about her?

"Um, no offense, but did Ninety-Six know she was a telepath? 'Cause, I've got to tell you, he didn't take that fact into account at all during his interrogations. She should have been subjected to the mind probe."

"Your partner had no need to know of her telepathic abilities, Agent. A standard mind probe would not have been powerful enough to breech her defenses. Rest assured, her interrogators are overcoming that obstacle even as we speak. She will divulge her secrets."

"Great," he gushed as his stomach clenched. The stupid girl—she could have saved herself so much pain by simply refusing to speak. Why had she felt compelled to save him? His life wasn't worth anyone's, much less hers.

"Just a few more questions, Agent. Why do you believe the terrorist saved your life? She compromised whatever mission she had undertaken by speaking."

"Believe me; I was as surprised as you." He grinned flippantly. "Maybe my charisma is stronger than I thought."

Sobering, he added, "If I had to analyze her reasoning, I'd say she's a zealot rather than an anarchist. She might commit acts of terrorism, but they're within her own skewed moral code. Dying for the cause was acceptable, but allowing someone else to die on her account was not. That might make her more dangerous than your run of the mill terrorist, but I have to say that I'm glad she turned out to be a zealot. I really wasn't looking forward to three days of torture before being executed."

The two senior agents shared a long look before Two asked, "Your partner didn't explain to you that you'd be freed no matter the outcome? Your death sentence was only meant to be a cover."

His lips compressed into a hard line. "What can I say? I guess he thought I lacked the proper motivation."

Agent One straightened in her chair, furiously scribbling notes that Rick couldn't decipher. After a few minutes, she looked up.

"Agent Sixty-Nine, you have been scrutinized by the two of us and upper management ever since this situation began to unfold. I must say that we have been impressed. You've seen combat, successfully completed ninety-eight percent of your missions, and are a keen observer and judge of character even when flirting outrageously enough to put Casanova to shame. From the surveillance we've watched, it's clear you know how to manipulate a situation to your advantage, and you're not afraid of enduring pain to reach your goals. Have you ever considered becoming a candidate for the upper echelons?"

"Sure. Who hasn't? While I'm flattered, I think you've forgotten why I was in jail in the first place."

"As we stated earlier, Sixty-Nine, we're well aware of your tendency to screw anything capable of giving consent. We both know the real reason you're in jail is that you publically suggested that Agent Forty-One had been killed by a Dalek."

"Yeah, well . . . ." He hastily schooled his features into an expression of contrition. He had to appear truly ignorant.

"There's no need to apologize, Agent. You are, of course, quite correct. The Daleks have indeed returned. We have attempted to keep this information under wraps in order to prevent widespread panic. They have not attacked as of yet, and we have taken steps to ensure that they never will. Really, I must applaud your keen powers of observation. Nothing liquefies the internal organs quite like a Dalek particle beam."

For the first time in a long while, Rick was completely flummoxed. He had a suspicion that the Time Agency had cut some sort of deal with the Daleks and were now collaborating with the enemy. Why else would the Orgons have taken over the prison?

"I don't know what to say. I mean, you've told me that they aren't a threat, and yet . . . ."

"You wish to know why they killed Agent Forty-One?" the woman suggested.

"Yeah, that pretty much covers it."

Unfortunately for Forty-One, he was the first to encounter the Daleks. Let's just say the meeting was somewhat hostile. However, he was able to send a message to headquarters before he was shot, and several agents, myself included, ambushed the three Daleks before they could harm anyone else. We are convinced they are not the advance scouts for an invasion, and after we finished with them, they understood that cooperation was the key to remaining in this sector of space. The situation is well in hand."

He had to stifle a snort. Daleks didn't cooperate unless they had a reason to do so, which meant the situation was well in hand only so long as the Daleks needed something. Then, they'd crush Tempus Tor like it was made of talc. And, he had a horrible feeling that once Ilsa talked, they would no longer need the Time Agency. Really, he was going to do them a favor by rescuing her.

"Okay, I can buy that. I mean, they were god knows where for over two hundred years. Considering weapons' development in the last two centuries, they're probably not as intimidating as they used to be. So, were you serious about the upper echelon, or were you just trying to flatter me?"

As an aside, he winked. "Which worked, by the way. Any time you want to go out for drinks, I know this cozy little bar on Balhoun that has the best flaming mojitos."

Agent One sniffed disdainfully. "Please spare me, Agent Sixty-Nine. I'm old enough to be your grandmother, great-great-grandmother actually, if the rumors about the Shanii are true. Your people do tend to breed quite young."

His good-humor faded. "They're not my people, not anymore, and you know why if you've read my file. So, you'll understand my reasoning when I request the back pay and leave that was promised if I got the girl to speak. I need some time to—"

The balding man curtly interrupted him. "We know about your brother, Agent. You do understand how dangerous it is to meddle with your own timeline, don't you?"

He bristled. If there was one thing he took seriously, it was the Laws of Time. "I'm not trying to prevent the attack, Two. I'm simply trying to track my brother. If he survived, and if he was taken onto the attackers' ship, then I want to know about it. Rescuing him from those raiders now will not affect my timeline. I never had the opportunity to do much more than make inquiries when I was younger, and it's not going to cause a paradox if I take a few weeks off to do some research in the archives."

"Agreed," One said briskly, already standing. "You have three weeks, Agent Sixty-Nine, and unrestricted access to the archives. Your back pay has already been credited to your account. Report to Headquarters in twenty-one days to begin your training."

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned, giving her a jaunty salute.

He had every reason to be happy. He was not about to die a slow and painful death for disloyalty. Best of all, he had twenty-one days to manipulate in order to stage Ilsa's rescue.

Whistling merrily as he left the debriefing, he vowed to show Jeanie a very good time that night on Balhoon.

* * *

><p>After a day spent deep in the bowels of the Time Agency archives, Agent Sixty-Nine was more than ready for some food and sleep. With the ease of long practice, he disabled the chronometer on his wrist strap. For the next twelve hours, he wouldn't exist, at least to his superiors.<p>

Briefly, he debated his dinner choices before deciding upon a restaurant he had discovered while on a mission to Sto. Their fruit flambé would be the perfect dessert to accompany his mussel pie. Plus, the restaurant had the added bonus of being off the beaten path. As far as he knew, he was the only Time Agent ever to visit the dull planet, so there was little chance of running into a rival during his unofficial visit.

Once he had eaten, he walked to a hotel near their main space port. There he rented a room, paying with an untraceable credit stick that he had acquired on Balhoun the night before. Jeanie had been much too inebriated by then to notice the quiet transaction, and he was in no danger of discovery.

Still, it paid to be cautious. Making a discreet circuit of the monstrosity of a building, he easily determined that no one was following him or interested in his whereabouts. For the rest of the evening, he did calisthenics while listening to data recordings that detailed humanoid species with two hearts.

There were more species with two hearts than he had realized, but as he had suspected, the vast majority were reptilian. The only reference he could find that came close to describing Ilsa was a rather sketchy article about a species known as Time Lords under the heading _Myths and Legends of the Milky Way_.

Listening to it had been akin to hearing a fairytale; the species was godlike in its powers. In fact, the author had asserted that they had created the Time Vortex itself. Dismissing such outlandish tales as nonsense, he skipped the rest of the entry.

He did find one ostensibly promising record. The species had a binary cardiovascular system and were purported to be telepathic. Unfortunately, they lived in the El Gordo galaxy cluster and were said to be quite reclusive. They identified themselves as Blue Bloods, as opposed to the red-blooded mammals that inhabited their planet.

When he read a detailed description, however, he knew he was on the wrong track. The males were an electric blue, almost neon, while the females were purple with long patches of white hair on their chests. Since the majority of Ilsa's hair had been on top of her head and she was a pale peach color, he dismissed the record as well, leaving him as ignorant as before as to which species she belonged.

Mildly disappointed, he took a quick shower under the sonic jets before crawling into bed. He planned on sleeping for eight to ten hours before returning moments after he left. With the necessity of sleeping out of the way, he could spend the entire night researching the history of Galbon. If he did manage to free Ilsa, he would need somewhere safe to hide her. Where better than with her family?

* * *

><p>As the Dalek mind probe tightened around her head, Emma fought the urge to scream. She had read detailed reports of the fate of Time Lords who had been subjected to the new, more powerful mind probes. The five who had been unfortunate enough to survive had had their minds shattered by the force of the mental intrusion. Two had committed suicide not long after their rescue, and the remaining three were now housed in the Citadel infirmary under a suicide watch. She had no desire to share their fate.<p>

Struggling uselessly against the Orgons who held her, she felt the psychotropic drugs seep into her cerebrospinal fluid as the mind probe pierced her flesh. Her mental defenses went first, her time perception second. It was an odd sensation, as if she had been blinded or had amputated her limbs. She could not say if she had been in the chair for minutes or hours, and she felt panic clawing at her throat.

Then, she felt the pain. It was as if someone had poured molten steel down her spine. She writhed in agony, screaming until she was too hoarse to make a sound. As abruptly as it had begun, it stopped, to be replaced by a relentless assault against her mind.

The Daleks wanted the code to the transduction barrier, something that she could not afford to give them. So far, Gallifrey had been spared the brunt of the war, but without the protection of the transduction barrier, the planet would be vulnerable to a military assault. Thousands of civilians would be killed, including the six thousand plus children who sheltered at the Time Lord Academy.

She could not allow them to be casualties. Their deaths would demoralize her people. No child had been loomed or born on Gallifrey in eight years, a silent testament to the people's dwindling morale. To lose their future would be to lose their last hope.

Desperate, she did the only thing she could do. She retreated into her mind, burrowing her consciousness so far down that the Daleks would have no hope of finding her. Of course they would try, and her psyche would suffer untold damage, but it was better to die broken than to live as a coward. Unexpectedly, she felt content. In the end, she had no reason to be ashamed.

* * *

><p>Rick blearily eyed his chronometer. He couldn't remember if he had slept in the last thirty hours or not, but desperation drove him. He only had seven days left, and he was no closer to finding the species to which Ilsa belonged than he had been on that first, wildly optimistic day. Nor had he discovered any new leads on Gray. It was as if the raiders had simply vanished once they had completed their attack.<p>

After much pilfering of the archives, however, he thought he had found the best time to attempt a rescue. In sixteen days, Tuem would be hit by massive solar flares, knocking out long-range communication for at least six hours. It would be the perfect opportunity to free her—if she was still alive.

Ignoring his doubts, he disabled the chronometer yet again. Holding tightly onto his sonic blaster, he teleported directly into the interrogation room. It was depressingly empty. Not letting that deter him, he scanned for double heartbeats and found her unique signature coming from the lowest level of the prison. Dodging the other life signs, he sprinted towards her cell.

With a cool efficiency, he blasted six Orgons out of existence as he descended deep within the prison. He'd never been to the lowest levels before, and he couldn't say he was impressed. Many of the cells had long since been abandoned. They were filled with outdated equipment and broken piles of junk. He hadn't even registered so much as a heartbeat on the last five floors, but Ilsa's double pulse was a distinct signature drawing him ever downwards.

It took him another twenty minutes, but at long last, he was facing the entrance to her prison. Instead of an efficient force field, however, her door was made of nothing more than thick steel. Almost casually, he disintegrated the last barrier to her freedom and stepped inside.

In the dark, the smell assaulted him first. Gagging, he retreated to the fresher air of the corridor until he was certain he could hold down his lunch. Fearing the worst, he lit his torch.

"Ilsa?"

She was huddled in the far corner, one arm held protectively over her head. While it was impossible to see her face under the tangle of wild, filthy hair, he knew something was horribly wrong. She didn't acknowledge his presence at all. Instead, she rocked rhythmically back and forth, humming a childish tune he didn't recognize.

"Ilsa? Sweetheart? I'm here to take you someplace safe."

The rocking didn't stop. Overcoming his instinctive revulsion at the sheer amount of filth covering her, he gently touched her shoulder. She had no discernible reaction, so he tenderly moved her left arm from atop her head.

He noticed several things at once. Her skin was dry, cool, cracked and bloodied. Her nails had been chewed past the quick. She had no bruising to speak of, but her flesh stretched too tightly over the bone, as if every ounce of fat had melted away. He had to stifle a curse.

As carefully as he could, he placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her to look into his eyes. This time, he choked out a strangled sob at what he couldn't deny.

"Sweetheart, no."

There was no spark of intelligence behind her green irises. Her withdrawal from reality had been so complete that she didn't notice him kneeling before her. With a desperation born of crushing guilt, he cupped her cheek and deliberately attempted to enter her mind.

Much later, he would describe the experience as walking through a dust storm full of broken glass. Everything was a chaotic, jumbled mess, and he could feel the jagged remnants of her mind pierce his own consciousness in a futile attempt to make a solid connection with reality.

"Ilsa! Ilsa! ILSA!"

He searched as swiftly and systematically as he could, hoping that he could find enough of her identity left intact to bring it to the surface. Eventually, he discovered her in the form of a small child crying in a bleak landscape of broken, rust colored boulders. Unhesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her and fought his way with her to the surface of her thoughts.

His haste had most likely damaged her further, but he had been forced to act quickly when he had felt his own consciousness begin to fray. He had only done the best he could to give her a fighting chance at reintegrating her psyche. If he hadn't acted when he did, she would have been lost forever.

Wrenching himself out of her mind, he lay panting on the concrete floor, too exhausted to move. After a few minutes rest, he warily opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

She had stopped her rocking to stare at him. There was a frank curiosity behind her gaze, but no recognition whatsoever. Reaching out to her, he held her hands.

"Hold onto me, Ilsa. I'm going to take you someplace where you can get better, but I need you to keep holding my hand."

She cocked her head to the side as if that would allow her to better understand. After a moment's consideration, she hesitantly remarked, "I don't think that's my name."

He smiled out of sheer relief. At least she could speak. Perhaps hoping for a complete recovery wasn't such madness after all. It would simply take time, and with his Vortex Manipulator, he had plenty enough of that.

"I know, princess, but it's the only one you gave me. When you remember, you can tell me, okay? Right now, though, you need to hold on tight."

Immediately, she flung her arms around his chest. Hoping she wouldn't panic, he engaged his Vortex Manipulator and vanished from Tuem with a loud pop. The guards wouldn't notice her absence for another two weeks, having been given strict orders to open the door only to retrieve her corpse.


	11. Broken

Ilsa let out a shriek as she felt her body pulled from one place to another. The sensation had been far too overwhelming for her fragile ego. Frantically, she began to rock back and forth to try to calm her muddled thoughts. Then, she felt a warm hand on her cheek, and she allowed the gentle man with the kind blue eyes to pull her to a sitting position.

"Hey, it's okay. You're in one of my private safe houses. No one can find us here. I bet you'd like to get clean, wouldn't you?"

She nodded at the caring sound in his voice, not exactly understanding his meaning. Though, the word clean had put a smile on her face. Clean was a happy word with happy feelings associated with it. Passively, she allowed him to lead her to another room, one with a large glass enclosure and metal protruding from the ceiling.

She didn't like the shape of the metal protruding from the wall; it reminded her of pain and fear. She crouched down, refusing to go anywhere near it. She had expected the man to hit her, but he simply led her away from the glass and into another, smaller room. This one had a hole in the floor covered by green marble. Thankfully, there were no metal stalks to be seen.

Her eyes widened in surprise as water rapidly filled the hole. She allowed the man to untie her dirty clothes. He kicked them as far away from them as he could manage, bringing another smile to her face. She did not like those clothes. They stank as badly as she did.

Without fear, she stepped into the tub. The warm water was bliss on her dry skin, and she sighed in contentment. The man let her soak in the water until she resembled a wrinkled raisin, and then he rubbed her from head to toe with soap as gently as he could.

The sting of the soap in her many cuts was agony, but the pleasure of being rinsed clean was worth the pain, and she only whimpered a few times. He apologized whenever she made an unhappy sound. The highlight of her bath was definitely the massage that went with her hair washing. By the time he had rinsed the shampoo away, the water was becoming tepid and she was practically asleep.

Grinning, the man drained the tub and quickly refilled it with more warm water. Then, he stripped off his own clothes and stepped into the spacious tub with her. She was impressed by the speed in which he cleaned himself. And, when he picked her up, depositing her onto a luxurious, soft mattress covered in warm towels, she thought she couldn't get any happier.

Dripping wet, he made sure she was dry and tucked under numerous blankets before tending to his own needs. He showed no embarrassment over his lack of clothes, and she studied him with frank curiosity. She thought he was very handsome as she watched him pull on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.

Her mind provided her with a strange word, one tied to his clothes, and she quietly voiced it. "Anachronistic."

A pleased grin lit up his face, showing off his dimples and temporarily crinkling the skin around his eyes. "They might not fit the time period, sweetheart, but they are comfortable. Do you want to get dressed first, eat or sleep?"

She considered his question and found a more pressing need. "Thirsty."

Propping her up with several squishy pillows, he placed a sweet, refreshing liquid to her lips. When she had drunk her fill, he sat beside her.

"Better?"

"Mm-hm," she mumbled, her eyes already closing in sleep.

* * *

><p>When she became aware again, she was in a different bed. The mattress was firm without being hard, the sheets a luxuriant, finely woven linen. She was wearing a soft flannel gown that covered her all the way to her neck, leaving her toasty warm. It would have been perfect except for the argument taking place directly above her. She recognized one of the voices immediately. It was the man with the kind eyes.<p>

"Okay, so I bounced and got here a little early! You seem willing enough to believe in time travel, so you tell me when I should have aimed for. Sixteen years after your civil war began? 'Cause I've got to tell you, there would have been a hell of a lot more casualties."

The voice that answered was familiar, but she couldn't recall a name. Even so, he filled her with fear. It was all she could do to remain still.

"Everyone in this room appreciates what you've done for us, myself more than most. You have proved the harlot false, thus preventing a war that would have been devastating for our people and planet. But, you cannot expect the king to acknowledge a woman who, even if she proves to be his, by your own admission is still in the womb at this point in time. While the Court might accept the explanation of time travel, the people will not. Such a thing would cause a panic for the same reasons why we must keep Gemma's betrayal secret. The masses are a paranoid, superstitious lot, and the knowledge that some unknown enemy has cuckolded the king for her own aims would cause rioting in the streets.

"What kind of planet is this? She's his daughter, for fuck's sake. I'm not asking him to acknowledge her publically! This isn't about finding an heir. She's ill! She needs somewhere to heal, somewhere safe, a place where people care for her. I can't find any information about her mother's people, but I thought that he, at least, would be glad to see her."

The voice which petrified her grew angrier. "There's no proof that she's his. Why should we take your word for it? For all we know, you have done this for your own purposes. Forgive us if we are wary—"

"Gedrow, enough. I understand your caution, especially after the wedge Gemma tried to drive between us. However, it would be prudent to withhold judgment until the test results come back. If she is my daughter, we can discuss what is to be done with her then. If she is not, I will ban them both from the kingdom. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to speak to Lord Rick in private.

Ilsa smiled, although no one was paying her the least bit of attention. This voice was as familiar as the man with the kind eyes. This voice was comfort and affection and safety. Then, her perception flipped, and she felt ashamed, guilty, unworthy.

"I do not advise such a course of action, Sire."

Before Rouchmel could respond, Ilsa whimpered and everyone's attention was suddenly riveted on her. Too frightened to open her eyes, she crossed her arms and rocked back and forth on the bed. Rick immediately went to her side.

"Hey, it's okay, sweetheart. We're someplace safe, just like I promised."

Trusting him, she looked curiously around the sunny, cheerful room. Everyone appeared glad to see her except the man who stalked out the door. His shoulders had stiffened in anger, and she vainly hoped his fury wasn't directed at her. The two remaining men smiled at her with genuine affection, however, and she soon forgot her unease.

She reached up to touch the cheek of the man who had so lovingly washed the filth from her body. It was partly a show of affection and partly to reassure herself that he was real. She felt so peculiar, as if she were stuck in some sort of dreamscape with no way of waking. His solidity was a comfort, as well as the chaste kiss he placed on her forehead.

"Ilsa—"

"That's a made up name."

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yep, although a very pretty one. Have you remembered your real name yet?"

The question frustrated her. She could feel a name on the tip of her tongue, but no matter how much she furrowed her brow, the knowledge would not come to her. After a few moments, she felt the man's warm hand smoothing the lines on her forehead, and she readily gave up her search.

"Cupcake, I want to meet your father."

She shrank away. "My father hates me."

A peculiar expression stole over the older man's face, but her attention was fixated upon the man sitting beside her. She knew she deserved to be thrashed for counterdicting him, but instead, he tenderly brushed his fingers against her cheek. He glanced at the older man, the one who looked pained and sad, before turning back to her.

"I think you're confused, sweetheart. Your father doesn't hate you. He's never met you."

"He does," she insisted. "It's my fault Mother died."

Unexpectedly, the strange man with the familiar voice choked back a sob. She sat up to stare at him curiously, although the motion caused her to feel extremely dizzy and she sagged against the kind-eyed man.

"We can talk about it later, okay? I promise he doesn't hate you. I bet you're hungry right now, though. The physician said they practically starved you. Who knows when you ate last?"

"Four days, sixteen hours and twenty minutes ago," she whispered automatically.

"Gemma used to do that." The other man's voice was croaky, like he had a bad cold. "She used to do that at very boring receptions to liven things up."

"She needs some soup."

"Of course, forgive me. The last four weeks have been difficult."

He abruptly left, barking out orders that a tray of soup and bread be delivered to the room, and she was left with the man who took care of her. Alone, she could see the worry behind his smile, the dark shadows under his eyes.

"Don't be scared."

"That's what I'm supposed to tell you, princess."

He playfully tapped her nose as her reassured her. The action was both a comfort and an irritant, although she couldn't put a reason with the reaction. Curious, she did the same to him. He took her hand and kissed it. She liked that much better.

"Now that we're alone, I want you to be very honest with me. How are you feeling, Ilsa?"

"That's not my name," she insisted, much like a needle on a phonograph might get stuck in a certain groove and play the same thing over and over again.

He responded with gentle patience. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry you can't remember. Can you tell me how you're feeling? Does anything hurt? Are you in pain?"

She thought seriously about her answer before giving him an earnest reply. "Being broken doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would."

His smile wavered and his eyes grew shiny. "I'm sorry."

She studied the yellow roses painted on the walls, clearly confused. "You didn't break me."

"It . . . ." His voice became croaky, too, just like the other man's had. "It took me a long time to find you."

She flung her arms around him. "I'm glad you did. I didn't like it there."

He held her for several minutes in absolute silence. She had the oddest idea that she could feel his sorrow. His left hand rubbed rhythmically up and down her back, lulling her into a semi-doze. Then, he pulled back and gazed anxiously into her eyes.

"Do you remember?"

She understood instinctively what he had asked. She didn't like the question. It hurt to think about it. But, for his sake, she tried to answer.

"Pain. I remember pain. And hate, so much hate. I was scared. Please don't be mad at me. I wanted to be brave, but it hurt so much."

She couldn't help herself; she bawled like a baby. He held her again, and she could feel him crying on the inside. It made her cry harder. He murmured words meant to soothe in her ear, but they were meaningless under the weight of his regret.

Soon, she was crying for him, begging him to not be sad on her account. He cried on the outside then, although his tears were silent, rolling down his cheeks in two thin streams. His emotions gradually changed. They were confused and disbelieving, but there was an underlying timid, contented feeling that put an end to her sorrow.

Wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand, she sniffed back her last tears. "I don't want to remember anymore. It makes you and me sad and hurts my head."

He pulled out a handkerchief and let her blow her nose. "I won't ask again, sweetheart. I promise."

The soup came then. It was not too hot and not too cold. It was salty and flavorful and in a mug so she didn't have to hold a spoon. There wasn't anything to chew, but her stomach filled up quickly. She placed the bread in his hands, and he ate it without argument. It made her feel good to share her meal with him.

_She had shared her meal with him. She had shared her meal with him._ Her entire body went cold, like she had been thrown into an icy stream. She saw them sitting together, before the hatred and the pain. One metal plate sat between them. He was smiling as he put a piece of food in her mouth. It was mushy and tasteless, but she was grateful for it. She rolled up a green leaf between her fingers and popped it in his mouth. He made a joke, but she didn't say anything in response. She didn't talk at all as they finished their unappetizing meal.

Shivering, she began to rock back and forth. "I was so quiet."

He immediately put his arm around her. "What's wrong, princess?"

"We ate from a metal plate. I didn't talk. It's making me cold."

He took the cup from her fingers and put a blanket around her shoulders. "Yes, we shared our meals in the cell. The plate was tin, and the food was horrible. You . . . ."

He stopped talking to put his fingers on her neck. She could feel her pulses beating against them.

"Hey, it doesn't matter. Don't try to remember right now, Ilsa. Just calm down."

"That's not my name," she declared distantly. The distinct memory of Tuem softened, until it was nothing more than a vague recollection, and the icy coldness that had gripped her loosened its hold.

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

Needing comfort, she rocked back and forth, and he rocked with her.

* * *

><p>Gedrow Salow was a world class asshole in any time period, Rick thought sourly as he waited with Rouchmel in the physician's office for the results of Ilsa's paternity test. For the last five days, the oily Lord Salow had constantly insinuated that Ilsa was an imposter who feigned illness to get close to the king.<p>

If only that were true. The poor girl's mind had been shattered, most likely by the Daleks since the Time Agency didn't have equipment powerful enough to induce such a fractured state of self-awareness. The few times she had remembered a snippet of the past, she had quickly gone into shock. Each time, it had taken every ounce of his imagination to distract her before she reached the point of losing consciousness.

"I am surprised to see you sitting here so calmly, Rick. Or perhaps merely envious. I admit that I find myself more anxious than I had expected."

Rick sat straighter in his chair. "Why, Sire? I thought you were happy at the prospect of finding your daughter."

"I am overjoyed, which is why I find myself so anxious."

He stared at the dull, gray walls pretending to read the ornate certificates on the wall. "You're beginning to believe your advisor."

The king shifted uneasily in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Lord Salow and I have been friends for thirty-five years. In almost all things, I trust his judgment. However, his dislike of Gemma was instantaneous. He thought I fell in love with her too quickly, that I was bewitched by her exotic beauty."

"And then he was proven right."

"No," Rouchmel corrected harshly. "Gemma never bewitched me. I saw her flaws, and believe me, they were there. She was passionate to a fault. She used to spend hours arguing with the other archaeologists over interpretations of the map my ancestors had left to the lost Depository of Knowledge. It didn't matter to her how logical the argument, she would cut it to shreds, insisting she was the only one with the correct interpretation. You should have seen her gloat when the discovery was made using her calculations."

"Her betrayal must have hurt you very deeply."

"It hurt," he agreed bitterly. "It hurt me to lose her, for any reason. I loved her, Rick, and I truly believe that she loved me. Were I not king of Galbon, I would buy a ship and track her through the stars, and finding her, would forgive her without a thought. But, I am king of Galbon, and she betrayed my people as much as she betrayed me. I am glad she escaped. I do not think I would have had the strength to kill her."

"If it's any consolation, I think she loved you, too. She seemed genuinely remorseful for having to leave you, and she argued heatedly with her superior about her actions here."

Incredulous, he gripped Rick's arms. "You spoke to her?"

"Not exactly. Look, it's complicated. Let me see if I can explain without making things more convoluted."

The explanation stuck in his throat as the physician walked into the small space. The balding man was obviously tense. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his right hand, and a soiled handkerchief in the left. Bowing to Rouchmel, he sat down at his messy desk and nervously fiddled with the papers he had brought will him.

"Your Highness, I have done every test imaginable on both you and the girl in question. It is difficult, however, to give you the definitive answer you seek."

That did not sit well with Rouchmel. "How so, Ledrine? You have taken more samples from us than I care to imagine. All I'm asking is for you to tell me if she is or is not my daughter. Certainly, that can't be too difficult."

The Court Physician was rotund enough to sport a triple chin and red, swollen lips. Rick couldn't help but be reminded of a particularly ugly fish indigenous to the oceans of Boeshane as the man began to sweat profusely.

"The girl's DNA is a triple helix, my Lord. We have never encountered such a complicated pattern in any species, and have been unable to analyze it completely. Since she is, at the very least, partially alien in origin, there is no one test we can perform to give you a decisive answer. We have, therefore, been forced to rely on several tests and observations that would rule out paternity rather than prove it conclusively."

"So, what you're saying is you were forced to prove their relationship by trying to disprove it."

The sweating physician gave Rick a thankful glance. "Precisely. We have found nothing so far to disprove the possibility of a father/daughter relationship, but neither can we say with certainty that such a relationship exists."

The king did not appear to be pleased, but he kept his voice even. "I would like you to explain your results—all of them."

Ledrine flushed. "Yes, Sire."

Picking up the papers, his tone became businesslike. "First, there is the matter of your sterility from the red fever you suffered as a boy. Although you were told that you were sterile, a study of your semen proves this to be false. Your sperm count is low enough that it would be almost impossible for you to naturally father children, but it is the almost that must be taken into consideration. It is physically possible for you to have fathered a child, although if you wish to produce a legitimate male heir, I would suggest in vitro fertilization."

Rick watched Rouchmel out of the corner of his eye. The man was visibly relieved.

"Go on."

"Also, there are certain outward features that you and the girl share. Your faces are similar in shape. Your chins are almost identical, and her nose is a Blevel nose through and through. Although these features can be influenced by cosmetic surgery, there is no indication that her bones or skin have been altered in any way. She is of an average height for a Galbonian female, and her bone structure is also indicative of the Blevel bloodline. Her cheekbones, pale skin, hair color and irises are recognizable traits of Gemma's. In addition, you are both left-handed and share the same adverse reaction to the lomal seed."

"And, how the hell did you test for that?" Irate, Rick half-stood from his chair, ready to run out of the room to check on Ilsa's welfare personally.

Rouchmel eyes blazed, and sweat rolled heavily down the physician's face as he realized his mistake. "We placed a small amount of the seed in her tea the day after you arrived. We were able to control the resulting palpitations very easily."

The man's explanation didn't impress Rick. "Palpitations? You mean heart palpitations? You gave a woman with two hearts who's been tortured and malnourished for weeks something that could affect her hearts? Are you insane?"

Rouchmel also seemed deeply troubled. "She is more sensitive to it than I am? I had not thought that possible."

"Her physiology is somewhat different, Sire." The corpulent man's neck was the color of a cooked lobster. Rick was so disgusted that he had to briefly look away.

"But compatible to ours?"

"Yes, Sire, entirely compatible. In fact, certain strands of her DNA that we have been able to isolate exhibit markers common to your ancestors."

"So, she is my daughter."

The man gripped the papers in his sweaty hands so tightly that the ink began to run onto his fingers.

"I did not say that, Sire. As I said, the tests cannot conclusively prove—"

Rouchmel had had enough. "You cowardly toad! I asked you to give me an answer, not protect your precious reputation. I understand that a normal DNA test is impossible. What about her blood?"

The papers crumpled into a soggy ball. It is the same basic type as yours, Sire. If necessary, she could be given your blood. However, the reverse is not possible."

"And you are still unwilling to speak what is more than plain to me? The child is my daughter, Ledrine. Why do you have such a difficult time admitting it?"

The man started gibbering. "Lord Salow said . . . that is . . . he suggested . . . but the time required to unravel it would be decades! I apologize, Sire! I should have released the evidence two days ago."

Rick cursed to himself. Gedrow Salow was going to be a problem. The arrogant man had admitted to confronting Ilsa's mother and accusing her of infidelity the morning she had announced her pregnancy to Rouchmel. That part of the memory he had seen had been true enough. He was not going to accept Ilsa in any way, shape or form.

Rouchmel stood, indicating the meeting was over. Rick, however, wished to know one more thing. "Forgive me, Sire, but those tending to Ilsa have refused to give me an assessment of her overall health."

"Well, Ledrine," the king impatiently ordered.

He made a show of reading from the papers, although they were too soggy to be legible. "Yes. . .well . . . the girl is mentally impaired. Surely, that much must be apparent to you, Sire?"

"Ledrine," he warned.

"My apologies." He waved the soggy mass of papers at the king's chest. "Her brain is too dissimilar from ours to assess, but the child seems to be suffering from some sort of dissociative disorder. Her immune system is functioning at a much lower level than a Galbonian of the same age, and she seems to be anemic, although, again, it is impossible to say for certain. Overall, I would have to say her health is fragile, Sire."

Rick clenched his fists. It wasn't anything he hadn't suspected, but the bluntness of the Court Physician's diagnosis brought a lump to his throat.

"Just what treatment do you suggest?"

"Treatment?"

This time, he clenched his jaw so hard that he had trouble biting the words out. "Yes, treatment. Or have you given up on her already?"

"I . . . ."

Ledrine, you're dismissed. I want your personal possessions packed and you out of the palace by nightfall."

Caught off guard, Rick looked appreciatively at the king. His fists were balled up just like Rick's, and his anger was palpable. The Time Agent was impressed. Before the physician could react, Rouchmel had stormed out of the office. Knowing where he was headed, Rick raced to catch up.

"She'll get better, Sire, if I have to nurse her back to health myself."

Guilt was a strong motivator. It was his fault that she had been tortured by the Daleks. It was his fault that she had lost much of her very self. She couldn't even remember much from the prison, although he was glad. The guilt of sitting idly by while his partner had violated and degraded her was bad enough without seeing the condemnation in her eyes.

Her frequent nightmares only added to his shame. On those nights, he would have to rock with her for hours, promising over and over again that she was safe until she fell into an exhausted slumber. It was his fault she was a mere shadow of herself, and it would be his penance to nurse her back to health. It was the least she deserved.

Rouchmel abruptly stopped in the empty corridor. "I have seen how protective you are of her. I have no doubt she will flourish under your care." Pensive, he studied Rick's eyes. "You will stay, won't you? I know you intended to hand her over to her family, but surely you must realize by now that you are as much her family as I? After all, I did not rescue her from the horrid prison in which she languished."

The thought of being permanently tied down to a physically weak, mentally unstable teenager filled him with abject terror. He was tempted to teleport out now, before he got in too deep, and either turn freelance himself or brazen it out with the Time Agency. There was no proof at the moment that he had done anything other than spend his vacation in the archives.

As swiftly as the terror overcame him, it was replaced with a growing sense of shame. The king of Galbon, a man he'd quickly come to like and respect, had asked him to tend to his daughter, a task he trusted to no one on his staff. And, it was his fault if Ilsa was physically weak and mentally unstable. Even broken, however, she had such a beautiful spirit. In the end, the decision was an easy one.

"I'll stay for as long as she wants me, Rouchmel."

And, for once, he meant every word.


	12. Melina

Author's Notes - Emma's lies in prison continue to haunt her as she can no longer differentiate fact from fiction. And, Rick is forced to make a choice when he realizes that Galbon might not be the idyllic planet he thought it was. Hope you enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated.

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><p>Ilsa sat at a dainty, gilded writing table, drawing stylized figure eights over and over again on creamy colored paper. They made her happy, and no one yelled at her when she asked for extra paper. No one yelled at her at all, which constantly filled her with wonder.<p>

She was getting hungry, which meant that Rick would be coming to see her soon. The kind-eyed man had a very funny name. It rhymed with Yick, a sentient, purple four-finned fish indigenous to the planet Splack. The Yicks constantly extorted goods and services from the Splacknoids, who were the dominant land dwelling species. The poor Splacknoids couldn't cross a body of water without paying tribute to the Yicks. It reminded her of the story of _The Troll under the Bridge_ from the planet—

Earth. She clutched her head in agony. Why did such a pretty blue and green planet hurt so much? She saw a massive marble statue of a regal woman in her mind's eye. She began to draw at a furious pace.

"Hey, princess, I see you're drawing something new." Rick knelt beside her to study the image that filled her with such sadness.

"Everyone I love dies."

He turned the paper over so she could no longer see the picture of the Greek goddess Athena. Then, he took the pen out of her hand. "Not anymore. In fact, there's someone who loves you very much who would like to meet you."

"Who?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Your father."

Frowning, she shook her head. "I told you before, my father is dead."

"He's not now, sweetheart. I know the people who raised you must have told you that, but we traveled to a time when he's alive."

"I don't think that's allowed."

He smiled as if she had said something clever. "It's pushing the envelope, but I haven't seen any reapers yet, so I guessing it's okay."

For a moment, she was distracted. "Reapers aren't anything to laugh about, Rick. They're very difficult to kill."

"You've seen a reaper?"

She felt a surge of surprise and thought it might be from him. Try as she might, however, she could not recall meeting with a reaper. She simply knew her sentence to be true.

"I can't . . . it's too . . . ."

He wouldn't let her think about it for too long. Gently, he massaged her temples. "It's alright, Ilsa."

"That's not my name."

He opened his mouth to say something when a voice interrupted him. "Is she well enough to see me this time?"

Startled, she whipped around to see who belonged to the voice. Hardly daring to believe, she sprinted from her chair to fling herself at the newcomer's chest, fervently running her hands up and down his torso as she raggedly begged his forgiveness.

"I never thought I'd see you again! I have missed you so much, my love. I beg you to forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you, Rouchmel. I tried to argue that killing the scientist would have resulted in fewer casualties. Please give me another chance."

He pushed her away in disgust. Rick was there to catch her when she would have fallen.

"What is the meaning of this? Is this some sort of perverse joke? Gedrow was right. I'll have you both executed!"

She didn't understand. This was the man she loved. She knew he would feel betrayed, but even at his angriest, he had never been disgusted by her affection.

"The poison was not my choice, my love. Please, I am begging you to forgive me."

"WHO ARE YOU?"

She shrank against Rick's chest. "It's me, Rouchmel. It's Gemma."

"GEMMA'S DEAD! AND YOU ARE NO MORE THAN A CRUEL TRICKSTER!"

Before he could say anything more, Rick came to her defense. His words, however, sent her to her knees in a haze of pain and confusion.

"Sire, please! I told you her mind had been shattered. She doesn't understand what she's saying. Gemma's people possess genetic memories. She must be confused enough to think that she is her mother. She is not intentionally hurting you, but you are terrifying her. Just keep an open mind for the next few minutes; that's all I'm asking."

Huddled on the cold marble floor, Ilsa tried to make sense of the conversation taking place above her. Her memories were so fractured. She had been so sure of her identity, but the kind man would not lie to her. Nothing made sense.

"I am unfamiliar with the term. What are genetic memories?"

She felt Rick's solid, warm hands grasping her arms. He picked her up like she was nothing more than a small child, but she didn't have the energy to protest while she lay against him on the floor. He smoothed her hair rhythmically as he spoke to Rouchmel in controlled tones. But, on the inside, she could feel his turmoil. She closed her eyes against it.

"They are memories passed down from one family member to another. Kinda like a family on Galbon passing down a story from one generation to the next. Except, as far as I can tell, these memories automatically pass through the female line at the time of the mother's death. She told me that her mother died the day she was born, so she's had these memories practically from birth. With the trauma she's suffered, I think she's having a hard time understanding the difference between her own memories and these familial ones."

"Do you mean to say that Gemma truly spoke to me just now? That she loves me and craves my forgiveness?"

She could feel Rick's frustration grow, but she wanted to hear his answer just as much as Rouchmel. She kept quiet.

"Gemma is dead. She does not possess her daughter in the way you're thinking. But, those are the thoughts and desires she had before her death. Ilsa acted on those desires without understanding that they were someone else's."

"That's not my name," she protested, blushing with embarrassment as she looked into his fathomless blue eyes.

He bent down to kiss her forehead as a sense of pride surged through him. "And, you understand it's not Gemma now, don't you, sweetheart?"

"I think so. I have other people living in my head, don't I, Rick?"

He chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Not real people, sweetheart. Think of it as a bunch of autobiographies stuck in your head. Only, with your injury, you can't tell which one of them is yours."

Mortified, she turned to Rouchmel. "I apologize, Sire. You must think me quite mad." Ducking her head, she added quietly, "Which I am."

He took her hands in his, and she forced herself to think of him as a stranger.

"My dear child, I am sorry to have overreacted the way I did. You gave me a precious gift, one I shall treasure always. To know with certainty that Gemma loved me is more than I could ever imagine. Do you understand now who I am?"

She stared at her hands, embarrassed to appear so obtuse. "I know you are the king of Galbon, Sire."

"I am your father, child."

Her brow crinkled as she sought to incorporate such an astonishing fact into her psyche. "Are you certain, Sire? I do not remember you as my father. My father said I was a disappointment. He hated me."

Rouchmel's eyes turned bright and shiny, and his voice shook. "That man might have raised you, child, but he was not your father. And, I could never hate you. You are a constant reminder of your mother's love."

"My mother?"

"Gemma," Rick supplied quietly. "You told me she died the day you were born, remember?"

She nodded to indicate she did, although it was a hazy, vague recollection. "So, it's my fault she died."

"Don't say such a thing, child. She wouldn't have wanted to you blame yourself."

Rouchmel was still holding her hands, which made her uncomfortable. She felt trapped and wary . . . and hungry, she realized with a jolt. But her overwhelming emotion was irritation.

"I am not a child. I wish you wouldn't call me one." Instantly, she regretted her complaint. Complaining was dangerous.

She felt Rick's smile hiding behind her back. Rouchmel was surprised, but not angry. In fact, he smiled too. She relaxed; maybe they didn't mind her complaints.

"No, you are definitely a beautiful young woman. But, what shall I call you, then?"

"What was my name supposed to be?"

The king's voice again filled with emotion. "We never had the opportunity to discuss names, but I'd always hoped that if I had a daughter, she would be called Melina."

"Then, you may call me Melina, Sire."

"What would you say to a pact? I shall call you Melina if you call me Father. Do you think you could do that?"

She broke out in a joyful grin. She now knew one incontrovertible truth about herself. She was Rouchmel the Second's daughter. "Yes, Father. I'd like that very much. Can we go to lunch now? I'm starving."

Rick pulled her up by the forearm, a matching grin on his face. Stumbling over the hem of her long, modest dress, she accidently fell into his arms. Burying her face into his chest, she inhaled deeply. His spicy sent made her shivery on the inside, and she didn't want to let go. For a moment lunch was forgotten.

"Cupcake? You okay?"

Embarrassed, she pulled away. "You smell good."

Rick guffawed, unable to hide his amusement. He kissed her forehead, and she unexpectedly wished he had kissed her lips. That thought started the strange feelings inside her again, and she grimaced as she tried to control them. He must have mistaken her reaction because the amusement died away to be replaced by concern.

"I didn't mean to make fun of you, Melina."

"I know. I was feeling funny inside, and it made me confused."

"Perhaps you're hungry?" the king suggested.

She smiled at her new father. "Hungry. Yes, I must be hungry."

As they walked out of her room, she thought about her funny feelings. She was hungry, but she didn't think it was the same hunger she felt for food. This was a different kind a hungry, one that made her body ache and her mouth curve in a secretive smile. She just wished that someone would tell her the secret.

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><p>"Have a seat, Lord Rick. We have much to discuss."<p>

He took a seat in the empty chair next to Lord Salow, warmly greeting Rouchmel while doing his best to be civil to the king's long-time friend and advisor. They were in Rouchmel's personal chambers and he wondered at the location. Taking a moment to drink in his surroundings, Rick was reminded of the oil barons of pre-flight Earth. Everything was done to impress. Even the king's desk, a sturdy, massive piece made of polished, burled wood, was grand rather than comfortable. Rick thought the accommodations were unnecessarily ostentatious.

Once the pleasantries were completed, Rouchmel got straight to the point. "Melina seems happy here, and I can't thank you enough, Rick for bringing her to me. I know you have warned me against expecting miracles, but she has improved so much in the last month that I can't help but hope she will one day be competent enough to be presented to the Court. First and foremost, however, I'd like to make sure my daughter is as content as she can be on Galbon, and to that end, I have several possible futures mapped out for the two of you."

"The two of us, Sire?" Rick instantly grew wary. He did not like the way the king emphasized their togetherness.

Rouchmel smiled benevolently, and Rick's suspicion only increased.

"At the very least, I owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend, if not a life debt for returning the child I thought forever lost. When you declared before me that you would stay with Melina as long as she would have you, I knew your love for her was true. Such devotion and loyalty should be rewarded. I know your title has been little more than a courtesy, and I would like to rectify that before bestowing my daughter upon you as your most cherished concubine. If you believe it best that she be protected from the intricacies of Court life, I would be more than happy to grant you the title of Count and 20,000 hectares of land near the Sedrall Sea. It's good land for farming, and there are several aerospace factories within its borders. Your income would be assured. However, if you think she is strong enough, I wish you would consent to be made one of my personal knights. I have grown to value your company as much as my daughter's, and would be overjoyed if you both could be a part of my life."

As the king spoke, he took out an atlas to point out the land grant he was offering. It was a huge area comprised of hilly, fertile land, and truly a generous gift. However, it was a gift which came with some very important strings attached. It was all he could do to remain impassive and not bolt out of the room. Galbon might be technologically advanced, but as far as sentient rights went, it had some catching up to do.

Ilsa wasn't a piece of property to be given away as a reward for a job well done. And, he sure as hell didn't want to formalize a relationship he barely understood. He didn't do domestic. A wife (or in this case a concubine), some land, a house and the idyllic pitter patter of little feet was no more than a twisted fantasy invented by primitive societies like the Shanii to encourage the continuation of the species.

Besides, he had no idea if Ilsa would ever be ready for a sexual relationship. Her sketches over the last two days had become increasingly disturbing. Just the day before, she had completely withdrawn from reality after drawing a smirking picture of Agent Ninety-Six kneeling between a pair of feminine legs. She had rhythmically rocked back and forth for almost three hours until he had calmed her enough to convince her that she was safe and the image was no more than a nightmare. He would never dare touch her in a provocative manner lest it trigger memories best left forgotten.

"I am honored, Sire, but I'm not sure Melina is well enough to—"

Gedrow Salow interjected before he could explain his reservations. "You would, of course, be named a Duke once she delivers a male heir. While Rouchmel's daughter might not ever be well enough to be presented to the Court, his grandson would be declared Heir Apparent. However, I have told the king that I am willing to take her as my secondary concubine if you are unwilling to accept such a duty. I realize that she is little more than a simpleton, and you are young enough to resent being burdened with her long term."

Rouchmel did not take kindly to the interruption. "Gedrow, you get ahead of yourself. I am as sure of Rick's feelings for Melina as I am mine for the girl's mother. He will not refuse the honor."

An honor? Even shunned on Boeshane, prostituting himself to earn enough money to care for his mother, he had never felt as trapped as this. He could either force himself on the woman who had saved his life and had her mind shattered for her efforts, or he could leave and allow a man he was truly beginning to loathe force himself upon her. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Some of his turmoil must have shown on his face, for the king grew anxious. "Was I wrong when I said you had feelings for my daughter?"

His decision made, he fervently attempted to reassure Rouchmel. "No, Sire. I care for your daughter more than I can say. It is the issue of an heir that has me troubled. Melina is young yet, and while in prison she was ill-used. I fear her reaction if I press her to be intimate before she is ready."

The king's obsidian eyes narrowed in anger. "I was unaware of that aspect of her imprisonment. You should have informed me at once."

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Was Galbon so socially backwards that the king now considered his daughter ruined? Were they both about to be renounced? Or was Rouchmel angry at him personally for not doing enough to safeguard her?

"I apologize, Sire. I was so ashamed of my failure to protect her that I found it difficult to confide in anyone." Eyes downcast, he realized that it was more or less the truth. He just hoped her father could understand.

The monarch nodded in sympathy, his expression softening. "From what you have told me, Rick, you could not have prevented it. Forgive me, but the thought of my daughter being violated in that way makes my blood run with fire. I would tear down that prison brick by brick if I could. Her tormentors are lucky they are beyond my reach."

Gedrow again interrupted, and it was all he could do not to hit the man. He skirted insubordination with his patronizing tones, but Rouchmel was too distraught to notice.

"Forgive me, my friend, I know your daughter has suffered much, but she is of age, and legally she must be bound to someone. If her . . . benefactor is reluctant, I again offer myself for your daughter in his stead."

Finally losing his temper, the Time Agent leaned over in his seat. His tone was controlled, almost friendly, except for the vicious undercurrent that guaranteed violence to anyone who didn't heed him.

"There is no way in hell, Gedrow Salow, that you are ever going to put a hand on Melina. I never said I was reluctant. Unlike you, I actually care about her welfare."

Turning to the king, he gravely announced, "I accept your offer of knighthood with a humble heart, Your Majesty. Although I feel that I have done nothing to earn such a title, I hope to prove my loyalty in your service. I would be honored to have your daughter as my favored concubine, for she is my night and day. When she is ready, I shall be overjoyed to present you with grandchildren."

Rouchmel didn't quite applaud with delight, but he did accept Rick's declaration with genuine elation. For his part, Rick had thought it was the sappiest thing he had said since attempting to woo the Bronte sisters while on assignment to Belgium in 1842. If he hadn't been a consummate actor, he might have gagged, but he did care about Ilsa's welfare enough to know that she would accept him more readily than she would accept that rat Salow. Besides, he didn't trust the Court Advisor enough to leave him alone in a room with Ilsa, much less allow him to be responsible for her care.

He had just signed the papers in front of several witnesses when Ilsa's maidservant Hanna came rushing into the room. The no nonsense girl looked close to tears, and he knew in his gut that whatever she said, it wasn't going to be good.

"My lord! The Lady Melina has had an accident, and the physician cannot calm her!"

With an agonized glance at Rouchmel, Rick raced from the room.


	13. Second Chances

Author's Notes - Yes, I know, Emma and Jack's names change several times in this story. I hope it's not too annoying. All the name changes reflect both their attempts to discover just who they are. Hope you enjoy.

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><p>Following Hanna through the long corridors, Rick listened grimly as she did her best to explain what had happened in the Hall of Reflection.<p>

"My lady was walking down the mirrored hallway when she began to shriek hysterically. She began to pound the mirrors with her fists, breaking several and injuring herself."

"Did she say anything, Hanna? Or was she only screaming?"

"She kept saying, 'I am not a child' over and over and over again. I'm afraid this has not been one of her good days, my lord. Her drawings have been fantastical and very sinister looking."

Reaching the infirmary, he paused for a moment outside the door. "Thank you, Hanna. I'll let you know if she needs anything."

Without waiting for a reply, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door, well aware that the disturbed young woman he sought was no longer merely some poor girl he'd decided to rescue, but his favored concubine. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

As soon as he entered, Ledrine's successor, a tall, fit man as nearly attractive as he, rushed to his side.

"Thank the ancestors you're here, Lord Rick. We were forced to sedate Lady Melina in an attempt to treat her injuries, but even unconscious, she is still thrashing about. I was hoping your presence might have some calming effect upon her."

"If she's unconscious, I doubt it, Garron, but I'll definitely try. How badly was she injured?"

Leading him to a secluded, private room, the physician didn't try to downplay the severity of what had happened. "She cut a vein in her left wrist, my lord. It does not appear to be intentional, but she could have died if her servant had not had the presence of mind to bind the wound before seeking help."

He glanced over to the bed. Ilsa was definitely unconscious, but she looked to be caught in a nightmare rather than resting peacefully like she should have been. A blood-soaked bandage covered her left wrist and hand, while her right hand was peppered with cuts and abrasions.

Five assistants stood by helplessly, too timid to hold her immobile so Garron could tend to her injuries. He guessed they were all too afraid of touching her since Rouchmel openly favored her. He dismissed them with a curt flick of his hand. Sometimes, the arrogance of nobility was a useful tool.

Sitting beside her, he pulled her to his chest, bleakly wondering if she would suffer such fits for the rest of her life. Even sedated, she struggled against him until she inhaled the scent of his skin. He had no idea why, but his pheromones had a soothing effect on her. After a few minutes, she was limp in his arms, and he placed her gently back on the bed. Crouched beside her, he soothingly stroked her cheek as Garron and his medical team repaired the torn vein, stitched closed her shredded skin and cleaned out glass from her remaining cuts.

The delicate surgery required to repair the vein and minimize scarring lasted over two hours. By the time the physician had finished, Rouchmel stood beside them, as tense as his newly named knight.

When Garron left after assuring them both that she would make a complete recovery, the monarch sat dejectedly in a chair that had been brought specifically for him. Rick sat at Ilsa's side, determined to make sure she slept peacefully for at least a few more hours. Silence reigned in the dimly lit room. Each was absorbed in his own thoughts until the king made a surprising apology.

"I regret having to bring up the topic of my daughter's future so soon, Rick. If I had not been certain of your love for her, then I would have been quite worried this afternoon. Gedrow is correct in that she is old enough to be given to a man, but I had hoped that no one would press the issue. Although I value him as a friend, I was surprised and troubled at his offer to take her as a secondary concubine. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to hear your heartfelt declaration on the heels of the terrible revelation of just how much my daughter has suffered."

Words failed him. Maybe he was tired; maybe the guilt over Ilsa's breakdown simply wore him out; maybe the apology wasn't good enough. For whatever reason, he didn't bother hiding his displeasure.

"Pardon my saying so, Sire, but when I told you I'd stay as long as your daughter would have me, I kinda thought she would have some choice in the matter. And, I understand that there are significant cultural differences from one planet to another, but I've got to ask just how the hell Galbon ended up with such a technologically advanced society when it treats its women no better than chattel."

Far from becoming irate, the king looked ashamed. "That is one of my greatest failings, and something Gemma pestered me to change until the day she died. Seven hundred years ago, a foreign retrovirus swept our planet. It killed a disproportionate amount of females, from infants to those at the end of their lives. So many, in fact, that our species became endangered within a matter of months."

"Let me guess, you bred the remaining women with as many different men as possible to ensure a diverse gene pool. I've seen the same on dozens of worlds."

"I should have known that our predicament was not unique. Men are men, however, and there will always be those few who do not treat women with respect. It was partly to protect women from those men that females sixteen and above were assigned a primary caregiver. Women were allowed to make their caregiver's house their permanent home, no matter how many other men were assigned to impregnate them. As our numbers grew, the custom became part of our tradition, even if it was no longer obligatory for a woman to have children with more than one man."

"So, it had its roots in necessity, but now it's just an outdated tradition."

"A very deep-seated tradition, however. The retrovirus has permanently skewed our birthrates. On average, only forty-five females are born for every one hundred births. I know that might seem insignificant, but multiply such a difference by a thousand, or a million, and you understand that women are expected to bear as many children as they can. And, in such a society, the number of children a man might count as his own is a sure sign of prestige."

"Is that why Salow doesn't mind that she's mentally unstable?"

He grimaced in acknowledgement. "That, and everyone at Court suspects she is my daughter. It's plainly written on her face even if no one would suspect Gemma of being her mother."

"But, he said himself that she could never be your heir."

"No, but if I do acknowledge Melina sometime in the future and she births a boy, the child would be my heir. It would be quite an honor for Gedrow to be father of the Heir Apparent."

Rick chewed over that for a while, not liking the implications. Rouchmel left a few minutes later with assurances from Garron that he would be notified the moment his daughter woke. For the next few hours, various members of the medical staff came and went, checking Melina's vital signs and replacing the bag of fluids she was being given intravenously.

All seemed well. She was stable and her sutures were holding. Garron managed to cajole Rick into taking supper with the Court, promising she would not wake in his absence. He felt more optimistic after a meal, although halfway through dessert he realized with a start that if all had gone well it would have been their binding feast. It was a sobering thought for many reasons, and he left quickly after that, anxious to be by her side when she woke.

* * *

><p>As the night lengthened, the visits from the healers became infrequent. Ilsa rested peaceably, and her vital signs were stable. Hoping the chair that had been brought in for the king was as comfortable as it appeared, Rick picked up an extra blanket from the foot of Melina's bed and settled himself in for an intermittent night's sleep.<p>

He was in the grip of a nebulous nightmare when he felt something touch his arm. Instinctively, he made a grab for his assumed assailant. He was jolted awake by a startled yelp and then a cry of pain.

"Shit!"

Immediately, he released his vice-like grip around Ilsa's right arm. Terrified, she hunched over, mentally withdrawing and rocking to an unknown rhythm. His anger and frustration at himself and the situation in general mounted as he witnessed her reaction. Wearily, he sat beside her and took her in his arms, wondering how many more times he would have to calm her before she learned to calm herself.

"It hurts," she eventually complained, holding out her bandaged wrists.

The heavy weight of his responsibility rested uncomfortably on his shoulders. "Yeah, kiddo, I know it does. Do you remember why it hurts?"

She let the silence lengthen until he thought she had fallen asleep against his chest. Only then did she obliquely answer his question. "The mirrors lied. That wasn't me."

He bit back a sigh. He should have anticipated her aversion to her reflection. She hadn't even seen her appearance until a few weeks ago. "Why do you think that?"

"I'm old and tired, not young and pretty. The mirror lied; I'm a bad person. I just want it to be over."

Hearing that, he really wished he had taken the time to look at her drawings from earlier in the day. Hanna had warned him, and Garron had been wrong. He had a feeling that the cuts to her wrist had been very intentional.

"Do you even know who you are right now?" he asked bleakly, too depressed at that moment to maintain a cheerful facade.

His melancholy had a strange effect. Far from being angry at the question, she ignored it completely, focusing on his emotional state. "You're all sad and mad inside. I don't like it."

"I don't like it when you hurt yourself," he snapped back, instantly regretting his show of temper.

"I wasn't trying to hurt me," she answered petulantly. "I was trying to make the girl disappear."

He was never going to get through to her. It had been a lost cause to begin with. The damage the Daleks had done was too great to fix. He was going to have to tell Rouchmel that she needed more than he could give her. Kissing her forehead, he intended to tuck her into her bed and disappear in the dead of night. Surely Rouchmel could find a different way to protect her from his advisor.

"I know, princess. Don't worry. I'm sure it will all seem better tomorrow. Why don't you get some sleep?"

She didn't take the hint, however. Instead, she pressed her cheek closer against his chest. "Why are you so sad on the inside? I don't understand, Rick. You're making me sad, too."

The significance of her statement finally pierced his sleep-fogged brain. "What do you mean, I'm sad on the inside?"

"I mean, right now you're all sad on the inside. And, disappointed, and guilty and a little mad. You're mad at me. I don't like it when you're mad at me. What have I done wrong?"

"How do you know that? Are you in my mind?"

The question confused her. "I always know. When you're happy, it makes me happy. You seem sad a lot, though. I don't think you want to be around broken people anymore. I wish you could stay. You're the only one who can call me back from the chasm."

The chasm—was that her term for the times when she withdrew from reality? Could he possibly have some influence over her conscious mind? A desperate plan suddenly took shape.

"Sweetheart, will you let me in your mind? I think maybe I can help you keep all the stories separate in your head."

The look she gave him was priceless. She obviously believed him to be somewhat dimwitted. "You're in my mind all the time, Rick."

He would have given anything to know what she was talking about, but at the moment, he was more interested in putting his scheme to work. Without further ado, he closed his eyes and focused on her, steeling himself for the mental assault of her fractured psyche.

When he became aware of his surroundings, he was pleasantly surprised. Although Ilsa's mindscape was damaged, taking the aspect of fractured rock interspersed with massive piles of boulders, there was no storm of dust and glass as it had appeared on Tuem. Everything was quiet, perhaps too much so. He was going to have to search for her consciousness again.

"Ilsa! Ilsa!"

The lithe child he had pulled to awareness after the Daleks had tortured the girl into insanity sprinted towards him. As she hugged him fiercely, he noticed that her pale green nightgown was liberally sprinkled with blood. Before he could ponder the significance of that, she looked up, her guileless eyes fearful and uncertain.

"Are you still mad at me, Rick?"

Acting on instinct, he smoothed his hands over her nightgown, willing the blood away. "Don't you know the answer to that, sweetheart?"

She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to a distant conversation. "You're worried, and sad, and frustrated, and really tired. You feel responsible for me, and that scares you more than you'd like to admit. You're afraid you'll fail me like you think you failed your brother and your mother. But, I don't think you're angry anymore."

Hell, fractured or not, she was terrifyingly insightful. She had read him like an open book.

"You're right, princess. I am tired and worried about you, but definitely not angry anymore."

Pulling away, the child leaned up against one of the more intact boulders, speaking far more maturely than any child should. "You're still upset we cut the girl. You think she deserves to live, but you don't know what she's done."

Fuck, she had said 'we'. He was going to have to argue with separate identities. That was going to make his task all the more difficult.

"You're frustrated again."

Fuck, fuck and double fuck. "You think maybe you could not read my emotions, cupcake? It's distracting, and private thoughts should stay private."

"But, you're so easy to read," she whined before scrunching up her face with effort. "I can't hear you right now, Rick, but I don't know how long my barrier will last. You should really make one of your own."

Yeah, like he was strong enough to make that happen. "I'll try to be quick, okay, Ilsa?"

"That's not my name, you know." A lone, purple lily lay at her feet, and she gleefully picked it up, inhaling its scent. "Sometimes I think I remember, but it's buried too deep."

He looked at the colossal pile of boulders to her right and guessed that she had deeply buried much about herself. "Would you rather I call you Melina?"

Plucking the purple petals one by one, she considered his question. "That's the girl's name, not mine."

"Then, I'm going to call you Ilsa." Geez, he was glad she wasn't reading him at the moment. His frustration level was through the roof.

Her only response was a shrug.

Taking the mental equivalent of a deep breath, he sat down beside a nearby rock.

"I know you feel comfortable here, Ilsa, but it's not fair for you and the others to hurt Melina. She deserves a chance to live a normal life."

A person-shaped shadow suddenly loomed on the ground in front of him, and he spun around to face the intruder. He'd never seen the woman before. She was another ginger, but her hair was the color of a dying fire rather than Melina's more coppery hue. Muscular, her plain face was the essence of grim determination, and he wondered if she had ever smiled.

Arms crossed, she sneered at him with pure derision. "You can't imagine what she deserves."

He opened his mouth to refute her assertion, but two more women appeared, loudly hurling wild accusations in unison with the child and adult already in front of him. His head began to ache at the weight of their scorn and condemnation. Quickly, he came to the conclusion that there was no reasoning with any of them.

"I DON'T CARE!" He roared, shocking them all into silence. As soon as he had their attention, he continued heatedly. "I don't care what you think she's done in the past. Hell, I don't care what she has done in the past. Even if she's a terrorist like the Agency said, she deserves another chance. She's young; she can make a new life for herself and put the past behind her! Stop haunting her! You have to give her a chance. Everyone deserves a chance."

It seemed that the figures were as shocked as he at what came out of his mouth. One by one they disappeared, and he was left in the barren mindscape, alone with his confused thoughts. Of course she deserved a chance; everyone did, really. He just had never thought that everyone might include him.

Go figure. In trying to save her, he had someone managed to save himself. He suddenly saw his entire life in a new light. Yes, he'd fucked up when he'd let go of Gray's hand, but he had been nothing more than a scared kid, not some kind of heartless monster. His mother had been wrong. Her mind must have been messed up more than Ilsa's for her to constantly belittle him and blame him for the actions of the raiders.

For the first time, he recalled the brutality of his adolescence. He'd been so starved for love and acceptance that he'd been an easy target for the predators passing through the space port. It had been easy for them to exploit his craving for affection to satisfy their own sexual gratification. Hell, he was very lucky to have such a flair for mechanics, or he would most likely be selling his body on some illicit pleasure planet, still convinced that he didn't deserve anything better. Shit, his head was as screwed up as Ilsa's.

Ilsa! Wildly, he searched for her, hoping he hadn't pushed her psyche so far over the edge that she was gone for good. Just when he had given up, she popped into existence before him, her self-image reflecting the reality of the Hall of Reflection.

This time, she wore a simple green tunic that brought out the light in her eyes and the highlights in her hair. Barefoot, she knelt before him, head bowed, her long tresses veiling her face, as if waiting for his final judgment.

Her humble submissiveness made him extremely uncomfortable. Kneeling before her, he tipped up her chin. The smile he gave her must have been encouraging enough, for she smiled tentatively in return.

"You truly don't care?"

He broke out into a wide grin, heady with his own self-realization. "Nope."

"I could have done horrible things, you know. They all say I did. They all desire death to differing extents. What if that's what I deserve?"

He spoke to himself as much as her. "It doesn't matter. Everyone deserves a second chance. You and I are lucky enough to get one. We can start over with a clean slate."

She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. "I'm not sure they want to start over. I think they want to drown me in regret and self-loathing."

He took her by the shoulders, willing her to understand. "Listen to me, Ilsa. You need to ignore them. They're nothing more than bitter ghosts trapped in the past. You have a chance at a new life on Galbon with your father and with me. We're both starting over, sweetheart."

Her lips quivered, and for a second, he thought it might be too much for her, but she sniffed back her tears. "Can you call me Melina? If I'm starting over, I think I should take the name that was meant for me."

He tapped her playfully on the nose. "Sure thing, kiddo. While we're settling on names, why don't you call me Doran. It's the one my parents gave me."

Unexpectedly, she leaned forward to press her lips against his. As far as kisses went, it was fairly mild, but the mental picture was completely overshadowed by the sudden, disconcerting sensation of connectedness. It was as if he could feel her breathe, hear the beating of her hearts, see her tentative joy.

When the imaginary kiss ended, he found himself in his own skull. His body was stretched out at the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around Melina's back. She slept soundly, a soft smile on her lips, as if she had recently experienced a very pleasant dream. He thought she had the right idea.


	14. Concubine

Author's Notes - Yes, there's a reason I chose Jack's given name, although finding a name with both those meanings was truly a happy accident. Hope you enjoy! A special thanks to ceeare for reviewing the last chapter.

* * *

><p>Was it truly that simple? Could she do as Rick suggested and ignore the voices screaming nasty accusations in her head? Broken, she knew she was a shadow of her former self. Did such a half-person deserve a life of her own?<p>

She sensed his conviction along with the amazement of his own unexpected epiphany. He was right; they both deserved a second chance.

"Can you call me Melina?" she asked. "If I'm starting over, I think I should take the name that was meant for me."

Melina, the name her father had bestowed upon her like a sacred gift. She knew she had another name, a singular one that had always been hidden but never quite as well as now. It was such a relief, though, to let that name go. She knew it came with a heavy burden, one which she was unable to carry in her fractured state. No, Melina was a much better name. Rick, no, Doran was right—a new name for a new person.

His own name with its Earth origins was uncommonly fitting. In Greek and Hebrew, Doran translated as gift, and she knew him to be precisely that. But, in the Celtic language, Doran meant exile or stranger, which he certainly was. How very odd that both definitions were equally valid in describing the man with the kind eyes and kinder heart. If only he understood how much she treasured him.

Leaning forward, she put all her emotions into that one kiss. The mental barrier she had erected toppled from the weight of her emotions. She could feel him again. The sadness was gone, replaced by a shocked wonder.

And, then, she reluctantly sent him away. It was time to start living their new lives rather than imagining them. Alone once again with her inner demons, she struggled to put his advice into practice. She ignored the voices that told her she was a killer. She ignored the one which told her she had to die. But, even as the memory of that one kiss eased her into sleep, the voices whispered in her ear, slowly but surely unraveling her newfound self-confidence.

* * *

><p>"Doran?"<p>

Sunlight poured into the unfamiliar white room, but Melina didn't notice the bright sunbeams dancing on the floor. Groggy, she focused solely on finding the man who had promised her a second chance. She didn't think she could manage it without him.

Already, the voices whispered their poison in her ear. He had only placated her the night before, if he had been in her mind at all. She must have dreamt him up. No one could ever care for her. She was a terrible person who should simply die. She would never deserve a second chance.

Flinging off her blankets, she hopped out of bed, intending to find him and demand the truth. She only managed a few steps before experiencing a chilled sinking sensation that threatened to buckle her knees. Without a thought for her injuries, she braced her arms against a nearby leather chair. Sharp, stabbing pain shot up her bandaged left arm, wrenching a cry out of her mouth. Trembling, it was all she could do to stand.

At the sound of her distress, Rouchmel and his physician rushed into the room. Garron hesitated to approach her, fearful that his presence would only agitate her further. The king, however, had no such reservation, rushing to embrace her.

"Melina, let me help you. You're far too weak to be out of bed, child."

Leaning against him, she sobbed miserably. She was weak and pathetic and no better than a child. She didn't understand why anyone would want to bother with her.

Tenderly, he helped her back into bed. With no hint of awkwardness, he let her cry against his chest, and she wondered why he was being so nice to her after she had done so much to embarrass him. But one concern overrode her shame.

"Do you think he hates me, Father? Is that why he left?"

As he patted her eyes dry with a linen handkerchief, Rouchmel's bewilderment was plain to see. "Who would hate you, Melina? No one has left. What is troubling you so?"

A new wave of tears threatened to erupt, and her words were interrupted by gasping sniffles. "I wa-was all a-a-alone wh-when I w-w-oke uh-uh-up."

Immediately, he transformed into the cold, regal monarch he had been trained from birth to be. Jerking his chin to Garron, he commanded, "Have someone bring him. Now. I believe he's in the armory. And, Garron, you assured him this would not happen."

The physician paled, no doubt remembering the fate of his predecessor. "My apologies, Sire. Lady Melina should not have woken for another few hours."

Turning back to his daughter, his expression softened. "Yesterday, I bestowed a knighthood upon Rick, my dear. He did not wish to leave your side, but the ceremony is in three days, and there is much to prepare. I'm sorry if you were frightened. Garron promised you would not wake this soon."

She could scarcely believe it. "He hasn't left?"

"Of course not. He cares for you very deeply. So much so that he has consented to be your lord. You are to be his most cherished concubine. I am so very happy that both of you will live in the palace where I can see you every day."

Revulsion and disgust turned her stomach. "I don't . . . . Am I a slave? Or a pet? Or just a responsibility?"

Her father looked stricken at the thought, and she began to apologize, but he quickly interrupted her. "It is I who should apologize to you, Melina. You are ignorant of our customs, and I should have explained more clearly. Every woman at the age of sixteen is bestowed upon a man, who becomes her lord. Women are not slaves, but respected mates. Only women who are truly loved by their lords, however, are named most cherished concubine."

It sounded an awful lot like slavery to her, but she was willing to give her father the benefit of the doubt. "You didn't force him, then?"

A flicker of unease rapidly passed over his plain face, and she wondered if she'd touched a nerve.

"No, quite the opposite, in fact. Lord Salow petitioned for you as well."

She spoke without thought. "That angry man? Why? He hates me. I mean, he hated Gemma, um, Mother. No, I think he hates me, too."

His confidence crumbled in the face of such honesty. "I truly do not know, my child. But, you needn't worry. He is not your lord."

She lapsed into silence, trying to make sense of everything her father had told her. Rick was now her lord, but what exactly did that mean? What were her duties? Would he still let her draw on as many pieces of paper as she wished? Would he expect her to clean? She might be able to do that, but she didn't know the first thing about cooking. She really hoped she wouldn't have to cook for him.

But a concubine had other duties. She knew the word; it was a familiar one. She, no, Gemma had been a concubine for Rouchmel. Concubines . . . she hit a brick wall. Concubines did something very specific, but every time she tried to remember, she saw the image of the nightmare man with the pale hair.

Almost every night, the nightmare man terrorized her dreams, and she woke up screaming. Rick usually snuck into her room to sleep with her for the rest of the night. If he was her lord, would he still have to sneak, or could he walk in whenever he wished?

"Good morning, princess. You look lost in thought." Smiling, Rick kissed her forehead.

Taking a look at him, she blushed. For the first time, he wore the traditional Galbonian dress of the nobility. His fitted black breeches emphasized his muscular legs, and his red waistcoat and short black jacket hugged his chest in a way that made her throat go dry. It was enough to send all other thoughts out of her mind.

"You look gorgeous," she gushed, belatedly adding, "My lord."

He preened like a peacock, laughing at the earnestness of her compliment. But then, he turned to Rouchmel, clearly not pleased. "You told her? I thought we discussed this."

She was surprised at his tone. Rouchmel was the king, even if he was her father. Not many would dare address him so bluntly or in such a familiar manner.

He didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, her father was very apologetic. "I regret the necessity. She woke up alone believing you'd abandoned her. It was the only way I could think to reassure her."

She could feel Rick's annoyance from several feet away. To forestall an argument, she redirected the conversation. "Could you help me up? I need to . . . you know."

Her simple request resulted in ten minutes of debate among Garron, Rouchmel and Rick as to whether she was strong enough to get up at all. In the end, Rick assisted her, and by the time she was tucked back in bed, there was a full breakfast waiting. He helped her with her utensils, since she wasn't allowed to do anything with her left arm, and her right was bandaged as well. Eating was a challenge, but she was determined not to be spoon fed as if she were a baby.

Her father left before she had finished breakfast, and Garron didn't linger. It seemed that Rick was annoyed with several people that morning, the Court Physician being very close to the top of the list.

"You're angry and frustrated again."

"But not at you."

"No, not at me."

She was glad that he wasn't angry at her. Maybe the voices were wrong after all. As she drank her lukewarm tea through a straw, she decided to do everything she could to please him.

"Do you wish me to take cooking lessons, my lord?"

He grinned like she had made a very funny joke, but then he sobered, and she was very fearful that she had said something wrong.

"Please don't call me that, Melina. You're not my servant, okay? We'll talk about the whole concubine thing later. Besides, I thought you were going to call me Doran?"

Thank . . . thank . . . well, she couldn't remember who to thank, but she was very grateful that she had not hallucinated their encounter in her mind.

"I was afraid I had imagined it . . . Doran." Quieter, she admitted, "All those people in my head tried to trick me. I think they hate me as much as Lord Salow."

Rick, no, Doran . . . oh, the names were getting her confused. Doran, then, since it fit him so well. Doran's anger surged, but she knew it was directed at the angry man and not her. She didn't think he liked Lord Salow any better than she, and told him so.

"Yeah, kiddo, you've got that right. But, don't go around saying that out loud. Gedrow Salow is your father's most trusted advisor and has a lot of power within the Court. We don't want to piss him off."

"Father said he didn't give me to you like a pet. He promised that you wanted me, but he said Lord Salow wanted me too. I don't want him to want me. He reminds me of the nightmare man."

Abruptly, she couldn't sense Doran's emotions at all. In their place was a wall of glass and sand. The absence frightened her, and she began to rock. And, then, just as abruptly, he was holding her and she could feel his concern and so many conflicting emotions that she couldn't make sense of them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, cupcake. I've been practicing since last night. If you don't want me to, though, I'll stop."

"Stop," she begged, clutching him as tightly as her injuries would allow. "The whispers get louder when you're not around."

He pushed her hair out of her face to peer into her eyes. She had the oddest feeling that he searched for the others in her mind, but they were strangely silent.

"Second chances. Remember, kiddo? I'll keep the connection open, but you've got to promise to try really hard to ignore those voices. They don't belong to you, and they shouldn't make you feel bad for the things they did."

"Second chances," she agreed wholeheartedly.

He then suggested they get some fresh air, explaining that Galbon's rainy season would begin in a few short weeks. If Melina hadn't been so desperate to escape the bleak white room, she would have objected to the outing. Being wheeled about in a chair was not her idea of proper exercise.

By the time they returned an hour later, however, she had to admit the chair had been a necessity. She was exhausted, but content. The palace grounds were beautiful, especially the formal gardens, which were filled with wide, bright blooms and crazily shaped hedges. She let Rick talk her into taking a nap, although he agreed that she could do so in her own room. For once, the voices didn't bother her at all.

* * *

><p>Walking quietly into Melina's darkened bedchamber, Doran watched her sleep. Her bandaged left hand rested protectively against her chest, but otherwise, she appeared to be peaceful and content. He hated waking her from truly restful slumber, but Garron had insisted she not miss the evening meal as she had the one at midday.<p>

Sitting beside her, he ran his thumb over her cheek. After four weeks of nutritional supplements and regular meals, her skin was soft and supple once more, although her cheeks remained gaunt. After sneaking into her bed on more than one occasion to comfort her after a nightmare, he knew that the rest of her body was just as bony. He hoped her appetite would increase soon. Even after the best care Galbon could offer, she was still quite frail.

"Doran? What's wrong?"

He watched her peaceful expression transform into a worried frown. One day, he hoped that she would feel safe enough not to assume the worst every time she woke.

"Nothing, sweetheart. Garron thinks you should eat, though. Would you like to dine with your father or have a tray sent to your room?"

By the dim light of the hallway, he could see her wince in pain as she struggled to sit up. Guessing that she wasn't going to be dining in public that evening, he helped her stuff some pillows behind her back and then turned on the overhead light.

"I'll get you a tray. What would you like?"

"Can we talk first? You promised to talk."

He didn't want to talk. It would be fine by him if he never heard the word concubine again. Second chance or no, it still rankled that he had been backed into a corner by Rouchmel's offer and Salow's interest.

"Are you angry at me?"

Letting out a long breath, he playfully tapped her nose. "Not you, kiddo, just this damn archaic society. Maybe I should have found another planet for us, one where a woman isn't given to a man to be a brood mare."

The blood drained from her face. "I don't get a say? That's all I am to you? A slave to bear your children? Father said you loved me."

Fuck, he was a callous asshole. Trapped or not, at least he wasn't the one expected to pop out a dozen children. Still, he couldn't lie to her; he didn't love her like Rouchmel had so blithely assumed. "I didn't mean it like that, Melina. You're not my slave, and I'm not going to force you to do anything, got that?"

"Then, what am I?"

He had no answer to give her, but she obviously expected one. As the words poured out of his mouth, he wasn't sure where they came from, but they sounded both right and true.

"You're someone who gets a second chance, just like me. We'll figure out the rest later, okay? Right now, we're going to focus on getting you better. Once you figure out who you are and who you want to be, then we can decide what we want to do. My Vortex Manipulator still works. We don't have to stay here if we don't want to, but right now, you should get to know your dad and the planet he rules."

She bit her lower lip. "We'll figure it out together? You won't leave me alone, Doran?"

Those were much easier questions to answer. He might not love her, but he cared what happened to her. "Together, I promise, Melina. I'm not going anywhere without you."

He was surprised when she didn't immediately perk up, but she seemed to give his words a great deal of thought. Finally, she asked, "May I continue to draw? I promise to use both sides of the paper this time."

A relieved grin stole over his face. "Draw, paint, sculpt, whatever you like. Who knows? Maybe you'll decide you want to be an artist."

The idea definitely surprised her. "I could do that?"

"Sweetheart, you can do anything you set your mind to. Only we've got to get you better first. How about I order a tray for both of us? I can help you cut your food in private."

She readily agreed, and twenty minutes later, he held a fork up to her mouth as he encouraged her to eat the fried fish the cook had prepared especially for her. Melina managed to eat half the portion before claiming to be full; he finished hers along with his. Then, he opened a heavy, gilded tome to read Galbonian origin myths out loud as she listened with rapt attention.

An hour later, her soft snoring alerted him to the fact that she had fallen asleep. Putting the book away, he placed a kiss on her forehead before he snuck out of the room. He wouldn't presume to sleep with her unless she asked, and she never asked unless her nightmares had been particularly troubling. On those nights, he barely slept once he lay by her side, preoccupied with soothing her well enough to allow her a few hours rest.

Unbidden, he began to wonder how it would feel to sleep in her bed when she rested peacefully. Considering what he had told her that evening, he would likely never find out. It bothered him to be bothered by that thought, and he promptly distracted himself by making a list of all the things he needed to do before his knighting ceremony. Thankfully, the list was a lengthy one.


	15. Capitulation

Author's Notes - Sorry for the slow posting speed. I wasn't sure what to title the chapter, although next time I'll just pick a word at random. It can't be any worse. Hope you enjoy.

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><p>"Arise, Sir Doran. Your pledge of fealty has pleased me greatly. I wholeheartedly accept your service and welcome you into my personal household."<p>

The former Time Agent stood, grasping Rouchmel's hand for the entire planet to witness. He was all too aware of the gasps of shock from the immediate crowd. He knew the people had been astounded by his sudden knighthood and subsequent appointment to a coveted position that few of noble birth could ever hope to achieve.

Thankfully, his responsibilities as a member of Rouchmel's household were few and far between. He had been named _Advisor to the King in the Matters of Interstellar Trade_, a title that sounded far more important than it actually was. While Galbon had regular contact with six worlds within the same sector of space, they had not yet taken advantage of the business opportunities such contact provided. Rouchmel had asked him to change that, albeit slowly, and he had agreed. They both knew his chief duty would be providing for Melina's welfare.

Glancing behind Rouchmel, he smiled warmly at the beautiful young woman he had rescued from the Time Agency prison on Tuem, and she tremulously smiled back. He didn't need some sort of telepathic connection to comprehend her nervousness. Three days ago, she had, intentionally or not, cut her left wrist so severely that extensive surgery had been required to repair the damage. And yet, today, she was expected to somehow play the role of concubine to the newly knighted advisor to the king with grace and aplomb.

It hadn't helped matters, either, that Rouchmel had publically embraced her before the start of the ceremony. The likeness between father and daughter was striking, and only a fool would fail to draw certain conclusions. He doubted the reporters in attendance were completely comprised of fools.

As they processed out of the massive throne room, Doran noted that Melina walked one step to the right and behind him, just as tradition dictated. He ground his teeth together at the chauvinistic, archaic custom while nodding politely to the cheering crowd.

Finally away from the throng, for a precious few minutes he and Melina were alone with the king in the Reception Hall. Effusive in his praise, Rouchmel pulled them into an exuberant hug.

"I am so proud of both of you. I can't begin to tell you how pleased this day has made me. Merely a month ago, I thought my life not worth living. I mourned the death of my love and the death of my child. And you, Doran, returned both to me when you brought Melina to my side. I hope you will one day know the same joy when you and my daughter are blessed with a child."

"Thank you, Rouchmel. If that day ever comes, I'm sure it will be a happy one."

Damn the man! He was a decent ruler who truly cared for his family's happiness. For some inexplicable reason, Rouchmel considered him part of the family, and the perfect man for his daughter. Half the time he stood in his presence, he felt like a fraud. The rest of the time he was tempted to march into Melina's bedchamber and make her his own, just like the king expected. Perhaps such an ordinary, domestic life was exactly what she needed to ground her firmly in reality.

He smiled at the woman in question, although it was impossible to hide his anxiety. She had performed admirably during the ceremony, but he wasn't sure she was strong enough to stand beside him in a receiving line that threatened to last well over two hours. Her cheeks were rosy with expertly applied makeup, not the flush of health, and she nervously rubbed her left wrist, playing with the bandage that was hidden under her white shirt and heavy green woolen jacket.

"I'm fine," she assured him, knowing his worry was directed at her.

Perhaps sharing his concern, Rouchmel tenderly kissed his daughter's forehead. "You can slip out once the refreshments have been served. No one will think any less of you. Many of the women in attendance today will be in a delicate state. It is normal for women to retire early from social functions, and no one will give it a second thought."

"But, I am not in a delicate condition, Father, and I wish to stay with Doran. It is his day, and I am very proud of him."

The flash of determination in her eyes was heartening, but her declaration of pride fortified Doran's spirit like nothing else could. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed a kiss onto her lips. She stiffened momentarily, whether from surprise or fear, he couldn't be sure. And, then, her lips softened, parting as if in invitation. Somewhat dazed, he pulled back.

Chuckling, Rouchmel clapped him heartily on the back. "Patience, my friend. I'm afraid you would definitely be missed."

"Right," he answered with a weak smile, inwardly cursing his stupidity. He was surprised she hadn't run screaming from the room. Her nightmares were still peppered with the leering face of his ex-partner, and there was no way in hell she was anywhere near ready for a physical relationship. He was stupid to think—

"You shouldn't be upset."

Shocked, he looked down to see her eyes radiating the all-consuming trust he had seen early in her imprisonment before that bastard Ninety-Six had stolen the last of her innocence.

"I don't want to scare you, sweetheart."

She cocked her head, and he wondered if she continued to listen to the voices that afflicted her. However, she appeared calm and tranquil when she replied.

"You don't scare me, Doran. I always feel safe with you. I liked your kiss. You don't have to ask permission to do it again."

That simple statement raised countless questions, but one of Rouchmel's many attendants chose that moment to announce that the doors would be opening momentarily. There was no time for further talk, much less kissing. Standing on the king's left, he reached back to reassuringly squeeze Melina's waist. Impulsively, he pulled her forward, until she was standing directly beside her father. Rouchmel appeared to be momentarily shocked, and then a pleased grin broke out on his face.

"Thank you, my friend. My daughter is stronger than you think."

Gravely, he nodded, knowing full well what he had just done. He could only hope that her father was right. In the next few hours, she was going to have to be very strong.

* * *

><p>Melina stood in front of the bright lights, supremely grateful that Doran had put his arm protectively around her. After the stress of the last five hours, twenty-two minutes and six seconds, she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand on her own. Her facial muscles hurt from constantly smiling during a two hour fifty-four minute receiving line and countless rounds of small talk. Her stomach was distressingly empty; no one had offered her or Doran a plate of food as he was bombarded by well wishes and curious questions about his past. And, she could feel sweat roll down her back as the temperature in the room naturally increased from the influx of so many people. Knowing how important the next few minutes were to her father, however, she unobtrusively leaned against Doran and did her best to ignore her growing exhaustion.<p>

"Lady Melina, is it true that you have no memories of your mother?"

Craning her neck, she addressed the reporter in the back of the crowd who had asked the question. Although she felt somewhat guilty for not telling the whole truth, she instinctively knew most Galbonians would not accept the concept of genetic memory.

"My mother died when I was born."

There was a cacophony of voices as reporters vied for her attention. Thankfully, her father had assigned someone to handle the press, and after a few seconds, one voice held the floor.

"And, your mother was an off-worlder, is that correct? You were, in fact, born on another planet?"

"Yes."

The inevitable follow-up question was shouted from the front. "Where were you born? To which species did your mother belong?"

She looked to her father, suddenly unsure. He immediately stepped to the forefront and took the question.

"As some of you may remember, when I turned thirty, I embarked on a yearlong journey to visit each of the worlds with whom we trade. While on Tlayeux, I met a woman who claimed to have journeyed even farther than I. Her name was Shayla, and she told me that her people were far more advanced than anyone in our sector of space. She travelled throughout the galaxy gathering seeds from different worlds in order to add to her people's knowledge of agriculture. We had a brief relationship during my stay on Tlayeux, and when I left I didn't think anything more of it."

He paused, glancing apologetically at Melina. She steeled herself for the story that was to come. Doran had whispered frantically in her ear before the impromptu press conference that she must not contradict Rouchmel. No one could know that they had traveled in time to such an extent that her mother was only a month gone. She hoped the story would be a simple one for her to remember.

"I only recently discovered that she was captured by a band of rebels on that planet shortly after my departure. They believed her activities to be hostile in nature, and tortured her for information about her home world. Months later, the Stranghe military found her during a raid of rebel headquarters. She was heavily pregnant, but was too traumatized to speak. She died giving birth several weeks later, and the child was taken into custody. As you well know, many of the people of Tlayeux are very suspicious of anything foreign, and because of her alien parentage, Melina was imprisoned from birth. I have Sir Doran to thank for rescuing her. He immediately noticed the resemblance to our people and brought her here to be tested, thinking she was nothing more than a Galbonian child who had been abandoned on a foreign world. I cannot express my shock or my profound joy when it was revealed that she is, in fact, my daughter. I ask all the people of Galbon to welcome her as I have done, and to understand that she has not grown up knowing our customs or traditions."

If Rouchmel thought that would be the end to the questions, then he was sadly mistaken. A sea of enquiries poured forth.

"What type of prison? How was she treated? Will you be retaliating in any way against Tlayeux? Is Sir Doran an off-worlder as well? Is he the same species as your daughter's mother? Is that why she was given to him as his concubine? Is she already with child? If it's a boy, will you name him Heir Apparent?"

The questions kept coming, but her father and Doran were the ones to answer them. Still, she didn't think she could stand much longer. Her left wrist throbbed painfully, and she found it increasingly difficult to remain upright. She no longer noticed the questions or the answers as her entire will became focused on not embarrassing her father by passing out in front of the media and the millions of Galbonians who were no doubt watching from their homes.

When it finally ended, she was so drained that she couldn't remember how long it had lasted. Somehow, she managed to smile and wave to the crowd in a fair imitation of happiness before following her lord out of the crowded hall and into a small antechamber that was normally used by servants. As soon as the door shut, Doran whirled around, catching her before she could collapse onto the floor.

She found herself sitting in a stiff chair with a cup of cool water pressed to her lips. Drinking greedily, she caught a glimpse of his eyes. The blue of his irises was as troubled as the rest of him, and she could feel the intensity of his worry as loosened the top four buttons of her linen shirt.

"We should have postponed the press conference. You're burning up, sweetheart."

She was too tired to answer with anything but a brief smile. Having finished the water in the cup, she let her head fall back as she closed her eyes. She might be burning up, but the sweat on her back had dampened her shirt, and now that she was no longer under the hot lights, she was beginning to shiver with cold.

"Get Garron!"

Her father sounded close to panic, but she couldn't muster up the strength to reassure him. It was much easier to rest in the chair while others moved around her. She heard snippets of conversation, but it mostly went over her head. Then, a pungent aroma invaded her nostrils. Her eyes popped open, and she jerked her head forward with a shudder.

The court physician leaned over her. "Did you eat anything during the reception today, my lady?"

She shook her head. It was still too much effort to volunteer information.

"Did you eat a midday meal before your lord's knighting ceremony?"

Again, she shook her head. She had meant to eat something before the ceremony, but Hanna had wanted to adjust the pins in her hair, and there hadn't been time.

"Please tell me you broke your fast today, my lady."

She tried to think. Had she eaten breakfast? That seemed so long ago. Before she could admit to not remembering, Doran answered for her.

"Only a small cup of fruit with some tea."

The physician spoke reassuringly to the king. "Most likely a simple case of exhaustion, Sire. Let me take a look at her wrist since I am here, and then her lord can take her to bed. Have a tray of food sent to her rooms."

Checking her arm necessitated her jacket coming off, which only made her colder. Thankfully, Doran seemed to understand so he draped it over her like a blanket. His heightened alarm abruptly penetrated her consciousness, and she looked down to see the hem of her left sleeve darkened with blood.

The bandage underneath was also blood-soaked, but after a thorough investigation of the wound, Garron was convinced that only a few sutures had torn. Swiftly, he cleaned, dressed and re-bandaged the injury with the admonition that she not rub it again. Doran's relief was palpable, but the extent of his emotion only served to exhaust her further. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes; she would chance the nasty smell if someone wanted to talk to her again.

* * *

><p>Melina woke up on her bed, somewhat disoriented. She wasn't quite sure how she had gotten there or what had woken her up. Finding herself propped up with several pillows behind her, she let her eyes wander. There was a large tray of food on her writing desk. Seeing the pieces of baked fowl and the pile of seasoned rice made her stomach growl. Thankfully, Doran held a plate piled high, and she sincerely hoped that it was for her.<p>

It was. Catching sight of her, a cheerful grin brightened his expression. "Good, I don't have to wake you. Garron said you had to eat. I've cut up your bird, but don't ask me to name it. Tastes like chicken, though."

Settling it on her lap, he then wasted no time in fixing his own plate. They ate in a comfortable silence, both too hungry to bother with conversation. While he had filled her plate far too full for her to finish, Melina ate a third before leaning back with a satisfied groan.

"I'm stuffed."

Picking up her plate, he bent down to kiss her on the forehead. "Good. I'll send in Hanna so you can get undressed and go to bed. You're supposed to sleep as long as you want tomorrow."

She was tired; there was no disputing that. But, Hanna wasn't the person she wanted. "Can't you help me tonight, Doran?"

"You want me to help you?" His voice almost squeaked in surprise. "Cupcake, are you sure? I'll have to touch you to help you undress."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion. "You are my lord, Doran. I know you said you don't wish to breed. I don't either, at least not now. But, why are you afraid to touch me? Do I displease you in some way?"

"No. Hell no. I just don't want to scare you, sweetheart."

"You never could."

He felt embarrassed by the truth, so she didn't add to his embarrassment by telling him how much she desired to feel the warmth of his body against hers. Instead, she watched as he undid the remaining buttons on her ruined shirt. She was glad to see the blood-stained garment gone; it was nothing more than a reminder of what the voices could drive her to do.

She obediently raised her hips in order for him to pull off her ankle-length woolen skirt. The leggings went next. Only then did he pull off her undershirt. Goosebumps formed on her bare chest and she could feel her nipples harden from the chill in the air.

A surge of lust surge through him, only to be replaced by revulsion. Confused and hurt, she burrowed under the soft down comforter.

"If you can't stand the sight of me, why did you say yes? I don't understand why you have to lie to me!"

Her tantrum frustrated him to the extent that he lashed out at her. "How the hell can you think I'm repulsed by you? I can't stop thinking about fucking you so thoroughly that you beg to be mine!

"Then why don't you?" she roared, incensed beyond reason.

Not thinking to censure his words, he raged right back. "Because I don't deserve anyone like you! I sat there, doing nothing to save you, while that bastard raped you over and over again! It's my fault you wake screaming from those damn nightmares almost every night! It's my fault you spoke during your captivity! It's my fault you're broken!"

His confession robbed her of all speech. Her eyes grew wide as the meaning of his rant became clear. Overwhelmed, she began to rock.

"Shit!"

Distantly, she sensed that he rocked with her, murmuring in her ear. His voice was full of tenderness and tears. His remorse led to desperate promises he had no chance of fulfilling, and musings that gave her the faintest stirring of hope.

As she calmed, she could feel his silver buttons against her chest, the scratchiness of the wool enveloping his arms, and the heat of his breath against her neck. She didn't want to dwell on the horrors he had told her. She believed in second chances now, and hers was so wrapped up in his that to condemn him would be to condemn herself. It was so much easier to want and need and drown her doubts in the scent of his skin.

"Doran, please, I don't care. I don't care what you've done in the past. I'm not that person anymore. Except for the nightmares, I don't remember any of it, but I don't believe for a second that you did any of those things by choice. You deserve a second chance, just like me."

"Melina—"

"Please. You are my lord. I am your concubine. Don't make it any more complicated than that."

He didn't answer; he didn't need to. She could sense his final capitulation. Suddenly, the guilt was gone, along with the sadness, the anger and the self-doubt. As he reached out to touch her, he didn't waste time thinking about the consequences. His mind was filled with tenderness, gratitude and a passion that swept her away.


	16. Gone

Author's Notes - Definitely more action in this chapter as Melina and Doran find their place in Galbonian society. Thanks to ceeare for taking the time to review. Comments are always appreciated! Hope you enjoy.

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><p>Waking up with Melina encased in his arms, Doran fought back panic. What the hell had he been thinking? He hadn't, and that was the problem. She was going to be horrified at what she had done. Sure, she had pretty much begged him, but now that she'd had a chance to process everything he'd told her the night before, he'd be lucky if she wanted him in the same room with her.<p>

"Doran."

Startled, he turned towards her, prepared for her rejection. Instead, he received a gentle admonishment.

"Please stop thinking like that. You're making me nervous. If you don't believe in second chances, how can I?"

He ignored the fact that she had somehow read his mind—again. "Sweetheart, do you actually understand what I did to you in the prison?"

Her mouth curved into a playful smirk, and her voice turned surprisingly sultry. "I understand exactly what you did to me last night. I would enjoy doing it again."

Damn, but he was tempted. Maybe she was right; maybe he thought too much. Except, he had to be sure, and she was deliberately avoiding the issue.

"Nice try, kiddo, but I really want to know."

She pouted for a moment before growing serious. "I understand what you told me last night, but I don't remember much except for the Nightmare Man. I don't understand your question, though. You asked me if I understood what you did, but you did nothing wrong. You didn't hurt me. I remember you washing my hair, and sharing your food. You didn't make me scream. You didn't make me bleed. So, I don't know how to answer you."

"I didn't stop him."

She sat up, folding her arms across her bare chest, and he was sure this was the moment when she would bolt from his side never to return.

"Could you have?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. And, then he acknowledged a truth he hadn't dared to face because, in a way, it made him a victim almost as much as her. "No, but I could have tried. Hell, I definitely should have tried. Except, it wouldn't have helped. I would have been killed, and he would have still hurt you. Gods, it was so hard to watch! I wanted to kill him, but he still expected me to fuck him just like nothing had happened."

Unfolding, she bent over him. With her bandaged hand, she carefully stroked his cheek. "I'm glad you didn't try. I couldn't have survived without you. I don't want to survive without you."

"Melina—"

She grinned, bending lower until her breasts hung above him like ripe, luscious fruit. "I know, Doran. You're scared. You don't think you deserve anyone's love, especially mine. It's alright. I'll never ask for more than you can give. Right now, I'm your concubine, and it doesn't have to be more than that."

If she had demanded a declaration, he probably would have run. Instead, he found himself reaching upwards. As his most cherished concubine, how could he refuse her?

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><p>"You look lovely tonight, my dear. You're practically glowing."<p>

Melina looked down at her long, black woolen skirt and shrugged. Although the embroidery was particularly ornate, she didn't think her modest attire all that attractive. Then, she caught Rouchmel's eyes with a grin. "You always say I'm pretty, Father."

"Only because it's true."

Kissing her cheek, he tucked a wayward curl of her coppery hair behind her ear. His expression grew somewhat sheepish. "Isn't there some news you wish to share with me, Melina?"

Perplexed, she tried to think of anything that might be noteworthy to the king. "Nothing I can think of, Father."

She saw the flash of disappointment on his face, and wondered briefly at the cause. She hated the few times when she had done something out of ignorance which had reflected badly on him. She wished to please him almost as much as she wished to please Doran.

"You aren't expecting, then?"

"Expecting? What would I be . . . ?" Her cheeks turned red. "Oh! No, Father, I am not. I'm sorry if this displeases you."

For the first time, he didn't reassure her. Instead, he mildly accused, "But Doran has been smirking rather alarmingly of late. I was sure that was the reason."

"He has commissioned me to paint your portrait, Father. The work is going well, although the painting was to be a surprise for your upcoming birthday celebration. I am sorry that it is not the surprise you had hoped for."

"It's almost been a year, Melina. I had thought I would be looking forward to a grandchild by now. The public is growing restless. The demand to name the Heir Apparent grows with each passing day. If you were with child, the people would understand my desire to wait and see if you will bear a son. Regrettably, some in the media are beginning to speculate that either you or Doran is infertile."

She loved her father; she truly did. However, she and Doran had no desire to start a family at his command. Their relationship was too tenuous for something as lasting as a child. Although the voices didn't plague her nearly as much, she periodically bordered on melancholy, and her health was never as robust as it should be. As for Doran, while she could sense his growing love for her, he was still too terrified to admit it. The reality of a child might drive him away.

The thought of disappointing her father, though, distressed her greatly. Unexpectedly, she felt trapped. Her hearts started racing, and she fought the urge to hyperventilate.

"Melina? Are you unwell?"

Her skin turned cold and clammy, and she thought she might be sick. Seizing the opportunity, she mumbled something about a cold and quickly excused herself. Doran could attend the reception without her. She desperately needed to have a good cry.

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><p>Entering Melina's bedchamber, Doran was not surprised to find her awake. The longer she stayed on Galbon, the less she was able to sleep, although her chronic insomnia didn't seem to affect her. What did surprise him was her blotchy face, bloodshot eyes and tearful sniffles.<p>

He immediately climbed into bed beside her, wrapping her in his arms. "Melina? What's wrong? You're father said you were unwell and had decided to rest."

Her tears flowed anew. "He said I should be pregnant by now, and I hate to disappoint him."

Mistaking her meaning, he valiantly tried to console her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Sometimes these things simply take time. It hasn't even been a year, and you were frail for several months while you recovered. If you're worried about it, though, maybe you could speak to Garron. He could do some tests."

Wiping her eyes, she stared at him curiously. "You think I should be pregnant, too? I thought you didn't want to breed."

He immediately backpedalled. "I don't, but I kinda figured it would happen sooner or later. It's not like there's any concept of contraception here, and we definitely have an active sex life." Troubled, he added, "I guess I'm not ready to be tied down to Galbon, though, and if we have a kid, that's pretty much it."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Doran, not until you were ready, and only if we both agreed. It would be wrong of me to release an egg without your permission."

"Release an egg . . . ." Once he realized what she meant, he hooted with laughter. "Do you mean to tell me that you can consciously control your fertility? I don't come on the sheets half the time because I like their texture, sweetheart."

She grinned at the absurdity in spite of her sniffles. "You do know that's an imprecise method of birth control, don't you? Especially when you only do it half the time."

He had the good grace to blush, and she smiled even brighter.

"Yeah, well, it seemed to be working, so I didn't really question it."

Melina's smile quickly faded. "What are we going to do? The women here are trained to believe that childbearing is a sacred duty. Hanna turned sixteen two months ago and has already confided in me that she's pregnant."

Rubbing the tension out of her neck and shoulders, he gave the matter serious thought. "If things got really bad, we could leave, I guess. Or maybe, we could tell them your treatment while imprisoned affected your fertility."

"Wouldn't that start a war with Tlayleux?" When he didn't answer, she timidly asked, "Do you want to leave?"

He gave her a rambling response that only highlighted his indecision. "I like it here. For the first time in my life, I can see the results of my work. At the Agency, we'd go in, fix a situation, and then leave before anyone could possibly connect the dots. Most of the time, the stuff I did was ancient history when I got back to Headquarters. It was like it didn't matter anymore. And, I really like your father. He reminds me of mine. For the most part, he treats people fairly, and he's usually open to new ideas. I'd hate to leave this place, but if it means having a kid in order to stay, hell, I don't know, Melina. My dad was great, but my mom never really did accept me, and it got worse after the raid. What if I'm like her? I don't want to be responsible for screwing up some kid's life, especially my own. And, then, sometimes I think having a couple of kids with you would be the best thing that could happen to us. I guess I was half hoping you would get pregnant and half dreading it. Maybe that's what my second chance is for. Maybe the wife, the kids and the house are exactly what I need."

"So long as I'm the wife."

"Sweetheart, you're the only one I'd ever consider."

Kissing her neck, he languidly undid the buttons of her shift. They'd talked long enough, and nothing was going to be settled that night. He wanted to bury himself inside her and pretend for a while that nothing else mattered.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Melina watched with a growing sense of unease as Doran warmly greeted the Thal Ambassador from Skaro. The more she watched the formidable woman speak to her lord, the more her head ached. Abruptly, a wave of nausea swept over her, and she was forced to clamp a hand over her mouth while she willed the contents of her stomach to stay down.<p>

Hoping no one would notice, she made her way to the refreshment table to ask for some of the ginger-like drink that was so popular with Galbonian women for settling queasy stomachs. It helped somewhat but not enough to return to her lord's side. Finding an inconspicuous chair along the edge of the great hall, she watched her father embrace the latest envoy from Tlayleux. The planet had recently formed a central government, and those in power were keen to put the past behind them and pursue interstellar alliances.

She glanced again at the Thal Ambassador and another wave of nausea overtook her. She clutched her stomach, debating whether she should leave before something truly embarrassing happened.

"You should try this. It's more effective than the root tea."

Startled, she looked up to see her father's chief advisor holding out a small cup full of a dark, thick liquid. Obediently, she took it from his hand, and began to drink. It tasted awful and had an even worse aroma. She could only hope the unpleasantness would be worth it.

"Thank you, Lord Salow. I was afraid I would be forced to leave." She began to stand, but he put his hand on her shoulder.

"You might as well rest while you can, Melina. No one will miss you for a few minutes yet."

She smiled with gratitude, although she wished she could tell him to remove his hand. It was making her very uncomfortable.

"You're very kind."

He grinned, and she couldn't help but think of a skeleton when he did. It sent a chill down her spine.

"Hardly. I simply know how much it would upset your father for you to collapse. He is very protective of you."

"Overly so," she agreed with good humor.

"Rouchmel mentioned that you had a birthday surprise for him."

Her hearts swelled with affection; her father was truly trying to understand the cultural divide that separated them. He had agreed to name an Heir Apparent in the next few weeks and, most importantly, to stop pestering her about her lack of offspring. She was putting extra time and effort into his portrait; she wanted it to be the most impressive painting he had ever received.

"It is a gift from both Doran and I, actually, but I won't spoil the surprise by revealing it now. That wouldn't be fair to Father."

"Of course it wouldn't, although the king's birthday is three months away. Your surprise will be apparent to anyone with eyes by then."

She ignored his mocking tone, although she wondered briefly about his insinuation. He didn't think . . . ? Impossible, surely her father had told him that she was merely painting his portrait. She attributed his ramblings to his twisted sense of humor and her dislike. Whenever they spent more than a few minutes together, his superior attitude invariably grated on her nerves like bare knuckles on sandpaper. Tonight was no exception.

Coldly pushing his hand off her shoulder, she stood to excuse herself. Only, as soon as she stood, the room spun. She was forced to grip his arm to stay upright. Sweating, her hearts raced in competing rhythms, and her stomach cramped painfully.

Alarmed, she tried to find Doran or her father in the crowd, but she couldn't see them in the throng of people.

"You must have caught that ague going around, my lady. Hanna can take you back to your rooms."

Vaguely, she nodded, too focused on keeping the contents of her stomach down to question why her maid was suddenly at her side. Something was wrong. Hanna, though sensible rather than sunny, had never looked so miserable and scared. Even in the hall of mirrors, she had been calm and collected as she had bound Melina's wounds.

"Hanna?"

"It's alright, my lady. It will soon be over. Come with me and I'll make sure you can rest."

Rest sounded like a wonderful idea. She turned to Gedrow to ask him to inform her lord that she was feeling poorly, but he was already gone. Her trusted maid led her out of the hall, down an empty corridor and into a small room where four men dressed as Stranghe officials waited for them. By the time Melina understood that she was being kidnapped, she was too weak to raise the alarm. She was shoved into a metal trunk and dragged outside. After that, she was too ill to wonder where they were taking her.

* * *

><p>"We found the girl's body in the formal gardens, Sire. Her throat had been slit."<p>

Sitting in the king's private chambers, blood pounded in Doran's ears. He needed to pull himself together, to interrogate the palace guards who had found Hanna's body. Crap, Melina had told him only two weeks ago that her maidservant had been pregnant. Her lord would be devastated, hopefully about the death of his concubine as much as his child.

The next thing he knew, Rouchmel was leaning over him. "Doran? Garron has a sedative I wish you to take. You can't help her in this state. There are reports of a vehicle leaving the palace soon after the reception began. The sentries report that four people dressed in Stranghe uniforms were inside. Give them time to track the vehicle before you do anything more."

"There weren't any Stranghe at the reception. This is some sort of diversion. I need to see the surveillance videos," he blearily argued.

Rouchmel didn't answer except to motion to his Court Physician. Before Doran knew what was happening, the Healer had injected something into his neck. Really, it hadn't been necessary. He was completely numb already. Without Melina, his life had no purpose.

* * *

><p>Waking up alone in his rooms, Doran halfheartedly tried to clear his head of the sedative Garron had given him. As tempting as it was to lay in bed for the rest of his life, he owed it to Rouchmel to find Melina's body. After the discovery that Hanna had been killed, he held little hope that the woman he loved had been taken for any type of ransom.<p>

Shit, why did he have to be such a fucking coward? He had loved her. She had been his second chance, and he had wasted it because he had been too scared of the past to make a future with her. If he had to do it all over again, he would take Rouchmel up on his offer to live quietly in the country where he would spend the rest of his life making her happy and filling her with children. He had been a fucking idiot, and now his chance was gone.

* * *

><p>"<em>You do realize you have it in your power to save her, don't you, my friend?"<em>

_Whirling around, Doran instinctively tried to draw his nonexistent weapon. Behind him on a decorative bench in the formal gardens sat a man who had no place on Galbon. He was otherworldly for all his humanoid appearance, and there was something about him that made the former Time Agent extremely wary._

"_You're awfully chipper for a kidnapper who's already killed a woman. What's your ransom demand?"_

_The solid man chuckled, clearly amused. "If only it were that easy. I hold no sway over your bond mate's fate. You, however, have your Vortex Manipulator. All you need to do is write an algorithm to find her."_

_So stunned was he by the suggestion that he forgot to wonder how the man knew of the significance of his wrist strap. __Dispiritedly, he replied, "You can't track a sentient being with a Vortex Manipulator. The math's too complicated."_

_The enigmatic man held up a brass hourglass. "I think, my friend, that you will find you can do much more than you ever thought possible with sufficient motivation."_

"_I'm not your friend!"_

_The intruder turned surprisingly regretful. "No, I don't suppose you are, but I take full responsibility for that. At least try. What do you have to lose?"_

Doran woke with a start, convinced he had just received a kick in the ass from his subconscious. After four days and the trail gone cold, he didn't have anything to lose. Dressing quickly, he left Melina's bed to return to his own rooms. Opening the hidden compartment in his desk, he took out his Vortex Manipulator.

To attempt to write an algorithm to track a single person through time was sheer madness. The math simply didn't exist for such a complicated calculation, and yet, his subconscious seemed to think he could do it. If nothing else, it was a reason to get out of bed. Hunching over his desk, he methodically began to input equations.


	17. Spatial Genetic Multiplicity

Author's Notes - Jack/Rick/Doran attempts to find Emma/Melissa/Melina and doesn't get it quite right. If you've read Careless Benevolence, then this chapter will be very familiar to you, although it's from a young Jack's perspective this time. Yes, it's timey-wimey, but I hope it's understandable. Thanks to ceeare for reviewing the last chapter. It might seem cruel to snatch Melina from her father just when she is thriving on Galbon, but it's important to remember that she doesn't belong there in the first place. Thanks for reading, and comments are always appreciated.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Doran was sure of two things. Rouchmel's grief had obviously unhinged him. How else could the king have named him as the Heir Apparent? And, he had just invented a new branch of temporal mathematics. He had seemingly done the impossible, although he had not confided his hopes to anyone in case they proved false.<p>

Now, all he needed to do was narrow down the search parameters. He didn't want to be bumping into Melina throughout her timeline. That could get confusing and dangerous very quickly. Making a natural assumption, he calculated her time and location for the moment when she needed him the most. He took out his sonic blaster from its hiding place; he'd happily kill anyone who got between him and the woman he loved. Then, he dropped a note to Rouchmel on his desk just in case he had been mistaken and ended up being consumed by the Time Vortex.

Steeling himself, he wished for a little luck before pressing the activation key and disappearing in a flash of light.

* * *

><p>He flashed into existence in a dirty hovel. One whiff told him where he was. Only the planet Bleak had that particular smell of baked clay and despair. He didn't have time to take any readings, however, because he had less than a second to decide whether to or not to kill the woman pointing the gun at him. At her crazed expression and outraged shout of 'You!' he decided not to take any chances. He made the woman disappear—permanently.<p>

Stepping around the wall, his hopes soared as he went to check on the intended victim.

"Shit."

She wasn't Melina, although she did have red hair, well, salt and pepper red hair. She looked to be in her mid to late forties. She was as petite as Melina had been. Though, her green eyes were much darker. The longer he studied her, the more he regretted what might have been.

He put his crushing disappointment temporarily aside to scan the grossly pregnant woman with his wrist strap. Four heartbeats—hell, the poor woman was carrying triplets. Having faked a single pregnancy for one of his undercover operations, he could well imagine how difficult that must be. The hormone injections alone had made him miserable.

He watched as she feebly wrapped her hands around her stomach as an intense contraction brought her partially to awareness. She wasn't just pregnant; she was in labor. He wondered how the day could get any worse.

Crouching beside her, he tenderly stroked her cheek. Aside from the condition of her bare feet, she was too well cared for to belong on this planet, let alone this area of the city. However she had gotten to Bleak, it had not been voluntarily.

"Oh, sweetheart, someone's done a number on you."

Knowing he simply couldn't abandon her, he set out to make one of the filthy mattresses clean enough to serve as a birthing bed. Once he had encased the mattress in a sterile barrier, he carefully lifted her off the floor and removed her clothes. Thankfully, he had thought to bring an emergency blanket folded up in his pocket. Unfolding the paper thin but warm covering, he placed it on top of her and waited.

An hour or so later, she finally roused enough to look around and immediately put her hand on his arm.

"Jack?"

"Sorry, sweetheart. I think you're a little out of it." He faked a confident grin, hoping to put her at ease. "But Jack is one lucky man."

Damn, she had started to cry, and then squeezed her eyes shut, effectively blocking the reality of her situation. Even the next contraction failed to elicit a response from her. Lightly tapping her face, he worried that she was in worse shape than he thought.

"Hey, stay awake. Was that woman your jailor? Were you taken by one of the slaver syndicates?"

"Go away," she mumbled, trying and failing to grab his hand. "Can't even hallucinate you right, Jack. I'm dying. Go away."

His own grief lodged a painful knot in his throat. He didn't think he could handle her death so close to losing Melina. Pulling out a small thermos, he put it to her mouth.

"Here, doll, drink this."

The rehydration solution seemed to do the trick because her eyes locked onto his.

"Jack."

He didn't have the heart to correct her. "How are you feeling, honey?"

With a strangled sob, she confessed, "Everything's wrong. I can't even sense you. I know you were hurt, but I'm so messed up I can't feel you now. I don't want to die here, Jack. Please don't let me die."

A telepath, just like Melina, Doran realized with a start. He must have gotten at least some of the equations correct, but right now this weary woman's plight was tearing out his heart. She was already so weak. The delivery would likely kill her.

"You're going to be fine, sweetheart. Do you know how far apart the contractions are?"

Morosely, she shook her head. "Where's the Doctor?"

"Was there a doctor here?" Sometimes slavers used doctors; sometimes they didn't. It would go a whole lot better for her if there was one nearby.

Feebly, she gripped his arm. "He promised everything would be alright. Where is he?"

"He'll be here," he promised with the ease of a practiced liar even as he had to turn away and wipe his eyes.

When the pain made her cry out soon afterwards, he gently encouraged her while rubbing her back. The scars he'd discovered when undressing her were thick and ropey, attesting to a lifetime of abuse. But she looked up at him with such an expression of trust and devotion that he felt a momentary pang of jealousy for a man he would never meet. She obviously cared for this Jack greatly, and he hadn't been too frightened to love her in return.

Briefly closing his eyes, he vowed to stay with her until the end. He would take her Jack's place for Melina's sake. She would have expected no less. If the Time Agency caught him here, there'd be hell to pay. He didn't think he could spin a yarn big enough to explain his presence on Bleak. It didn't matter; he really didn't care anymore. He had lost his second chance. He knew not to expect a third.

* * *

><p>The groaning and wheezing sound that filled the trash strewn hut made his hair stand on end. It was not a sound he had ever heard before, yet it gave him the strangest sense of déjà vu. Springing to his feet, he pointed his blaster at the odd blue box that materialized in front of him.<p>

Inexplicably, a skinny man wearing a fitted brown suit and trainers barreled out of the box so fast that he ran straight into his blaster.

"Put that away," the man snapped as he sidestepped the gun in order to assess the woman's condition.

Without protest, he lowered his weapon and backed away. So Jack had made it after all. She roused enough to speak to him briefly, although Doran was too far away to hear what was said. He knew this was his cue to leave, but the thought of returning to Rouchmel empty-handed was too much to bear. Suddenly, the man was scrutinizing him. His gaze contained more curiosity than malevolence, and Doran relaxed. The woman he'd found would be well taken care of, and really, he had no place here.

"Not to get caught up in tangents, but is Romana likely to find us?"

"If Romana's tall, crazy and ginger, then you don't have to worry about her. She's dead."

"Good, I think we have enough to worry about at the moment."

Well, the man had said 'we'. Maybe Jack needed some help. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

"Hang in there, Emma. We're going to get you into the TARDIS in just a minute."

So, he now had a name to go with a face, a name that sounded suspiciously like Gemma. He felt a kindling of hope. Maybe his equations could be fixed somehow, and he could still find Melina.

"Can you help me get her into my ship?"

He looked up, embarrassed that he had been caught unawares. That type of behavior could get him killed. Damn, but Jack was good looking. An irrational surge of jealousy overtook him.

"Looks a little small for one, let alone two."

"It's bigger on the inside. Now, are you going to waste time arguing any more, Agent, or are you going to help?"

"It's bigger on the inside," he echoed with a healthy dose of skepticism even as he wondered how the man knew he was a Time Agent. He wore the clothing of Galbon, not his blue Agency uniform.

"Yes," the man snapped, clearly losing his patience. "A little perspective here, Captain. You can see she needs help. Perhaps you can restrain your sarcasm until we're inside my ship."

He'd never been addressed as captain in his entire life, although he liked the sound of it. But, the guy was right. There were more important considerations at the moment. Together, they helped the frail woman into the blue box.

Hell, bigger on the inside didn't begin to cover it. But, he ignored his shock as the man led him past an intriguing control room into an incredibly advanced infirmary. Within minutes, they had the pregnant woman settled.

Temporarily standing in the background, Doran watched as Jack cared for his mate. After a while, she seemed more alert. When he caught her staring at him with a frown on her face, he intentionally smiled.

"Glad to see you resting more comfortably, Emma."

She became agitated. "Doc, what's the matter with Jack? Why is he calling me Emma all of a sudden?"

So this was the physician, not Jack. Why was she still calling him Jack, though? She seemed to be lucid now.

"Earth First got their hands on a psionic grenade. We were attacked leaving the summit, and Jack was caught on the edge of the blast. He's bound to be a little confused."

What a load of crap. The guy in the tight-fitting suit was a very good liar, but he wasn't quite in Doran's league. It fooled the woman, however. For the first time, she grinned, and he had to admire her humor in the face of such grim odds.

"Nothing's ever easy with us, is it, Jack? I guess I should be thanking the Bad Wolf for sending you to me, but I wish she'd just taken care of Romana in the first place."

"Yeah," he agreed after a second's pause. "I guess it isn't."

A glance at the physician had instantly convinced him to play along. He saw no reason to crush an ailing woman's comforting delusion. Besides, whoever the man was, he had some interesting tech. Maybe they could work out a deal. Maybe the possibility of a third chance wasn't so far-fetched.

The negotiations were surprisingly easy. It seemed he was this Jack's twin. It wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. Spatial genetic multiplicity was a real phenomenon, especially in the humanoid population. He readily agreed to continue the charade so long as the man called the Doctor helped him with his equations. The guy didn't look too pleased, but he had agreed, and Doran trusted him to keep his word.

The woman finally gave birth to a too-small baby boy, who was swiftly whisked off to an incubator, and a healthy baby girl with two hearts. The mother hadn't fared so well. She was dying in front of his eyes even as the Doctor begged for her to hang on.

Doran's mind was teeming with questions that he knew better than to ask. Two hearts, just like Melina. Red hair. Green eyes. At long last, he had found Melina's people, most likely her relatives. Was the blue-eyed infant her great-great-grandmother? Cousin? Mother? Sister?

He watched the Doctor stroke the woman's cheek; it was all he could do not to sob. The man was devastated, his grief painful to witness.

"Don't give up, not now. Our children need their mother."

She managed to open her eyes, and say just one word, but the emotion in her voice truly said it all.

"Beloved."

He had to swallow his tears as the Doctor held Emma in his arms. Although there was no visible indication, he was sure they were in each other's minds, saying their final farewells. Doran took in her dull gray hair, the gauntness of her limbs and her deathly pale complexion, but her appearance didn't repulse him at all. Taking her final breaths, she had such a sense of peace that he couldn't help but wish he'd met her earlier.

"Jack."

He could barely speak. Her Jack would never see her again. "You did great, sweetheart."

"And so will you," she quietly promised. Weakly, she squeezed his hand. "Promise me one thing, Jack."

He had the strangest desire to confess that he wasn't the man she thought he was, that he wasn't her Jack, but he was able to squelch the impulse for her sake. He kissed her forehead.

"Anything."

"Take Owen to Boeshane one day, when he's old enough to understand."

The blood drained from his face as his entire world shifted on its axis. Thankfully, she merely thought him upset at the request.

"I know they rejected you, but it was part of your life, Jack. You said yourself it made you who you are."

Somehow, he managed to answer. "Yeah."

The Doctor quickly interrupted before she could accidently reveal anything else. "Get some rest, Emma. Lovingly, he covered her with a thick, warm blanket. "I'll be back once we get our daughter cleaned up."

After scanning her one last time, the Doctor led his visitor to the nursery, where he began to bathe the baby. Doran was so shocked that he couldn't think of one intelligent thing to say.

"So, I've crossed my own timeline. That's a first. You going to tell me what's going on?"

"Spoilers."

Well, he was glad the Doctor was handling everything better than he was. Though, if he understood the situation correctly, the Doctor and Emma were his lovers, so he guessed the man had had much more time to get used to the idea.

"Yeah, I guess it's not a good idea to know too much about my own future. I still need help with that algorithm, though."

"Let me finish up here."

Briskly, the Doctor bathed the infant and scanned her with some device. She was perfectly healthy. After he'd dressed her in a soft pink sleeper, he wrapped her in a bright tie-dyed blanket.

"Would you like to hold her while I check your equations?"

He looked at the baby like she was a live grenade. It was one thing to know your future, another thing entirely to hold it. "I won't cause some sort of paradox?"

"Nah, it's not as if she'll remember it, Captain."

Gingerly, Doran took the baby out of the Doctor's hands. Carefully supporting her head and neck, he peered deeply into her inquisitive blue eyes. She was stunning. Holding out his index finger, he watched in awe as she gripped it, smiling all the while.

"Hello, sweetheart. I hope I get to meet you again." He had his doubts, though. The Doctor had refused to discuss why Jack wasn't with him. Unless he was going to change radically in the future, only his death would have prevented him from being at his children's births.

A few minutes later, the Doctor returned with his Vortex Manipulator, looking troubled.

"You did this yourself? You didn't have help from a mysterious blonde?"

He ignored the reference to the blonde, although it had better not refer his former partner, Ninety-Six. "No. Why? How far off am I?"

"You're not, and that's precisely the problem. This goes beyond impossibilities, Captain."

Tearing his eyes off his daughter, he studied the Doctor. He didn't understand what the man was trying to say.

"Look, usually I'd do a little flirting and suggest a fabulous evening of sex to try to convince you to help me. But, frankly, as much as I'm sure we'd both enjoy it, we don't have the time. You need to get Emma some help, and I need to find my—the woman I'm trying to find. So, if you can't help me with the equations, it's best if I leave."

The Doctor put his hand on Doran's shoulder in such a way that confirmed that they were lovers.

"I can't help you with your equation because there was nothing wrong with your calculations. It was your search parameters that were off."

"But, I input the time she would need me the most."

His eyes widened in shock. That story he had dismissed as fantastical was nothing more than the cold, hard truth. Every assumption he'd made about Melina had been wrong. Time Lords were much more than a myth, and she was one of them. He needed to find her now more than ever.

"Damn, my timeline's not crossed, it's tangled. So, are we all going to disappear in a puff of logic?"

"Well, since we haven't yet, I think we're safe. And, I'd warn you to avoid paradoxes in the future, but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

He grinned with a renewed sense of hope. Now that sounded like something to look forward to. "Thanks, Doc. I won't forget this." Tapping in a new command, he flashed out of existence.


	18. Twisted Timelines

Author's Notes - As Doran searches for Melina, the action of the chapter gets very timey-wimey indeed. And, the 11th Doctor makes a cameo appearance. Now, I know the 11th Doctor makes telepathic contact by crashing his head into someone else's, but I just couldn't bring myself to write it that way. It just didn't go with the seriousness of this particular scene. Hope the chain of events is somewhat understandable. Most of all, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>Doran appeared in the Time Agency's secure archives in a flash. He would have to be quick or he would be dead and of no help to anyone. Grabbing the thin data chip labeled <em>Myths and Legends of the Milky Way<em>, he immediately jumped to Sto to throw off anyone who might be tracking him. The scanty information he gleaned from the data chip was illuminating if one took it as fact. Regeneration was a fact of life for Time Lords, but it was a conscious decision. The Melina of the future who had just given birth would soon have a new, healthy body, but only if he could convince his Melina of the possibility of regeneration.

Landing on Galbon after a few intermediary jumps, he realized that he hadn't been gone long enough to be missed, not that he intended on staying. Quickly he decided on his new search parameter. That had obviously been the last time Melina had needed him. This time, he would search for the first time she had needed him. Confident he would find her this time, he activated his Vortex Manipulator to find himself—

In a mountain valley of red grass? This wasn't Galbon. This was Melina's home world. Had the Doctor found her on Galbon and taken her home? He dismissed the thought immediately. Although he had only known the Time Lord for a few hours, he was convinced that the Doctor was not the type of person to use murder and abduction to get his way. No, the search parameter must be wrong again.

"You're human."

Whirling around, he saw an attractive, older woman wearing brown pants and a red tunic that over-emphasized her graying hair. He recognized her at once. This was an older version of the woman who had lost her daughter to the Daleks in ancient Greece.

"Emma?"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How do you know my name? Who are you? Why are you here? The lesser species aren't allowed on Gallifrey."

Gallifrey. A fitting name for such a majestic planet. He almost made a joke about the whole 'lesser species' bit, but he read her body language well enough to know that would be a mistake. Instead, he brandished his Vortex Manipulator.

"Do you know what this is?"

She shook her head, suspicion warring with inquisitiveness. "Should I?"

"It's a Vortex Manipulator. With it I can travel through the Time Vortex. I've recently input a tracking algorithm to take me to a specific individual, but the calculations are always a little off. This time, I input the time when you first needed me, Emma." He cracked a smile. "I guess I'm a little early."

"You're searching for me? Why?"

He swallowed thickly. Her loneliness was blatantly etched into every line on her face. He'd have to retcon her anyway. She was far too early in their timelines for her to remember him. Still, this was Melina. For once, he wanted to brave and tell her the truth.

"Because I love you and you need me."

She mouthed the words in disbelief, but he seized the moment to crash his lips against hers. He wanted—needed—her so badly, in any form. She was his only chance, the only reason for his salvation. Her response was just as desperate, and they were soon naked in each other's arms lying on the soft, red grass.

It was the first time he had made love to her knowing exactly what she was. For a moment, he was self-conscious; she had called him one of the lesser species. What if he was inadequate? But, then, when they were entangled together, his only thought was to please her. In the end, they pleased each other, and she accepted his devotion without question, like the gift it was meant to be.

As the double suns slipped behind the steep mountain range, they retreated indoors. Her home was grand and impressive, rivaling Rouchmel's palace on Galbon. No wonder she had felt so comfortable there. He couldn't help but notice, however, that it was empty of people. Somehow, she discerned his thoughts.

"The servants only come once a week to clean. There's no reason for me to keep a retinue. I haven't been out of the valley in many years."

Taking her hand, he kissed it tenderly. "The life of a recluse doesn't suit you, you know."

Flustered, she turned back to the stove, tearing the omelet she had been trying to create.

"It's ruined."

"I like scrambled eggs," he assured her, pressing his body against her back.

"I've lived alone in this house for such a long time. I'm not sure I have the courage to do anything else."

He nibbled gently on her earlobe. "Of course you do."

"How long? How long do I have to wait for you?"

He parroted a word the Doctor had said to him as he breathed in her ear. "Spoilers."

She melted against him, slowly, rhythmically, pressing her body against his. After a few minutes, she turned off the burner.

"Promise me you'll find me."

"I already have."

She handed him two glasses, picked out a bottle of wine and led him to her bedroom. After she was fully sated, he regretfully dropped a retcon pill into her drink. Right before she lost consciousness, she turned to him, her eyes filled with disappointment.

"You drugged me."

"It's too early. You can't remember."

"I must. It's the only way I'll survive."

Stroking her cheek, he eased her head down onto the pillow. "You'll go to sleep and wake up refreshed and happy, like you haven't been in a long time. You won't remember me, but you'll decide it's time for a change, and you'll go on a trip. When you return, you'll find a purpose again. You'll fill this house with friends and do something with your life."

Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him against her chest, inhaling the scent of his skin. "I won't remember you, but I will definitely miss you. And, when I smell those delightful pheromones of yours, I'll know you're someone I can trust."

Gradually, her arms loosened as the sedative took effect. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before tucking her in.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>Running out of ideas, he tried for later on her timeline, only to find himself back in the valley of red grass. Perplexed, he scanned the area, wondering if he had somehow gotten stuck in a temporal loop. Except, he could see an unfamiliar woman running towards him, her arms held out in welcome.<p>

"Jack! I thought you weren't due back for three days! How was the summit?"

She looked to be a few years older than he. Her eyes were paler than Melina's, and her coppery hair was a mass of frizzy ringlets. When she called him Jack, though, he knew he had to tread carefully. He was too close to directly crossing his own timeline.

She soon sensed he wasn't quite Jack. Abruptly, her hands dropped to her sides, and he suddenly found himself on the business end of his own sonic blaster.

"Hey! That's mine!"

She grinned, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes, he'd never seen her with eyes quite like these. Like the Emma he had just left, they were filled with pain and grief as much as happiness, but her innocence had been replaced with bitter experience.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Agent. Now, why don't you tell me why you're here."

"I'm here to find you," he protested.

Suddenly, he was reminded of her brief staring contest with his ex-partner. She radiated power and menace, and he took an involuntary step backwards.

"I don't know how you figured out who I am or where to look for me, but you are not going to take me back to the Time Agency. I had enough of their torture the first time. Leave before I do something we both regret."

He didn't understand. "Melina, you have to know I would never do that to you! I love you! I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to admit that before. I know it's later for you, but on my timeline, you've been kidnapped from Rouchmel's court, and I'm trying to find you before they kill you like they killed Hanna."

The gun wavered in her hand. "I was where?"

He was having trouble breathing. This couldn't be happening. "Don't you remember? Or was the damage the Daleks did to your mind too severe? Sweetheart, did someone bring you here? Is that how the Time Lords fixed you?"

Her entire body shook with emotion, but when he attempted to comfort her, his sonic blaster pointed at his face once more.

"Don't, just don't. You're lying, and I can't take it, not from you. You're not the man you'll become and I'm not stupid enough to fall for the old amnesia trick. There were no Daleks! You weren't there! And, you and that idiot of a partner of yours must be strung out on some very powerful drugs to come up with such a pathetic lure. Do you really think I'd just go with you? I don't know how you figured out our timelines are tangled, but I know what you were like back then. You were nothing but a shallow, vain shyster who used sex as a weapon just as much as that blaster bulging out of your pocket! Get the hell out of here before I shoot you and cause a paradox, you stupid ape!"

She meant what she said. Stunned, he activated his Vortex Manipulator, flipping it to random.

* * *

><p>Hell, he was beginning to hate red grass.<p>

"Doran?"

Whirling around, he came face to face with the woman who had just crushed his spirit. He backed slowly away, his hands held up in surrender.

"Look, I'm not trying to hurt you. Just give me some space and I'll be out of here in a few seconds. I need to reprogram my Vortex Manipulator."

Damn it! He was not going to cry in front of the curly haired harpy! She'd made it very clear that she had no use for him, at least not at this point in his life. Had Melina really thought so badly of him? Had she felt betrayed that he had brought her to Rouchmel?

Realization dawned and he felt like he had been punched in the gut. Gemma, Emma, Melina—they were all the same person. She must have felt horribly deceived when she had realized that she had been impersonating the daughter of the man she had betrayed. No wonder she held him in contempt.

Verging on shock, he didn't hear her approach. He startled when she lovingly cupped his cheek. "Doran? Sweetie? When is this for you?"

Digging his fingers into his palms, he took a step backwards. "I just met you. This you, I mean. I promise I'm leaving. I understand how upsetting everything must have been to you. I won't bother you again."

The sympathy in her eyes was too much. He let out a strangled sob.

Embracing him tightly, her voice wavered with regret. "I'm so sorry, Doran. I didn't understand then. I can't explain to you how or why, but please believe me when I tell you that I was terribly mistaken. You have saved me, so many times, more times than I deserve. The Doctor and I are constantly in awe of the fact that you chose us to love."

"I fucked up! I thought I was bringing you home, and all I did was add to your guilt!"

"You brought me where you thought I belonged. You brought me to a place where you thought I would be safe so I could have time to heal. How could I be angry for that, my love?"

She stood on her tiptoes, although it was hardly necessary, and brushed her lips against his.

"I love you unconditionally, Doran, and for once, I'm going to tell you a spoiler. Right now, you're already the man you will become. Now, if I'm not mistaken, you still need to find me."

"I'm not sure I can. Every time I try, I find another you."

She took his arm, and confidently entered a set of coordinates into his Vortex Manipulator. "You've always searched for times I have needed you. This is the time on Galbon when we needed each other."

With that, she took a thin, cylindrical device out of her pocket and pointed it at his wrist strap. Unexpectedly, his teleport engaged and he was gone with a flash and a pop.

* * *

><p>As the cellar in which she was imprisoned filled with a loud, mechanical wheezing, Melina was simply too weak to hide. For hours, she had been afflicted with intense, agonizing cramps in her lower abdomen, and her strained muscles pained her too much to move. Besides, she wasn't sure she could move with her hearts beating so erratically. At this point, she wished the poison Lord Salow had given her was faster acting, but she thought he had wanted to make her suffer before she died.<p>

Turning her head, she saw an impossible blue box appear in the far corner of the room. A rather intense looking young man popped out of the box just like a magician, and she goggled as she noticed his clothes. He wore dark trousers with work boots, a blue button down shirt, red braces, a tweed jacket and a bow tie. He wasn't a magician; he was a clown.

As he knelt beside her, she found herself oddly amused. "You look ridiculous."

"You've said that before." Then tension in his expression softened for a moment as he pointed a buzzing cylindrical device at her. When, he glanced at it, however, his features settled into a grimace before he forced himself into artificial cheerfulness.

"Where are you on my timeline, anyway? I don't recognize this body, and I thought you had described them all to me."

Suddenly, she wasn't sure if he were a clown or a madman. Nothing he said made sense. "Do I know you?"

He threaded his fingers, through hers, gripping her hand as he peered intently into her eyes. All of a sudden, she was buffeted by his anxiety, absolute devotion and an underlying grief so strong it pained her.

"You really don't know me, do you?"

She weakly shook her head. "My mind was shattered in prison. I'm sorry. I don't remember much before Doran rescued me."

"Rescued you? Of course! He rescued you!" He began to babble excitedly, and in her deteriorating state she could barely keep up. "I pulled a page out of his book, I'll have you know. I set the TARDIS for the time when you needed me the most. Have to admit that I was hoping to find you a bit later in the Library, but our little beauty always knows where I really need to go. Now, all I have to do is heal your mind and let the Captain do what he does best, sweep you off your feet. You'll be right as rain in no time, I'm sure of it!"

She hated to shatter the manic stranger's optimism, but it had to be done. "I'm dying."

He instantly sobered, although she had the strangest impression that he was deliberately downplaying the gravity of her situation. "Yes. Well, of course you're dying. Bit inevitable, really, with the two separate poisons running through your body. You'll be dead in a matter of hours. It's not the dying you have to worry about. It's the remembering what comes next that's important!"

Before she could think to protest, he pressed his hands to either side of her face. "Now, listen to me, Emma. Listen very carefully. I'm going to have to go into your mind and fix the damage that was done. I know you must be very, very frightened right now, but you're going to have to trust me. Can you do that for me?"

"That's my name," she replied with wonder. "You know my name."

"I know everything about you."

She believed him. He might be a stranger to her, but he had spoken the truth. He knew her like no one else. Welcoming him into her mind, she felt a connection between them even greater than the one between her and Doran. He introduced himself as the Doctor, and promised to make her better.

* * *

><p>As the Doctor entered Emma's mind, he wasn't prepared for the depth of his grief. It threatened to overwhelm him, and he couldn't afford the distraction. But, to see her one last time and not have her know him was horribly unfair.<p>

As soon as he had felt their bond break, he had taken his TARDIS and run, faster than he'd ever run before. He'd abandoned his children (well into adulthood, they could hardly be called children anymore). He'd abandoned Jack (a particularly idiotic decision, one for which he sincerely hoped Jack would forgive him in a hundred years or so).

Desperation and the aching loneliness of her absence had given him the idea to imitate what a very young Jack had done all those years ago. He had had a wild hope that he could somehow save her without causing a dangerous paradox. So, he had sweet-talked the TARDIS, and had programmed his ship for the time his bond mate had needed him the most.

Never in his wild imaginings could he have predicted the time she needed him most would be in that two year period where she and Not-Yet-Captain Jack Harkness had been together only to be ripped apart by his ignorant, meddling brother. Frankly, he was astounded the TARDIS had been able to breach the time lock to reach back into the Time War at all. If successful, he was going to have to be very circumspect about her future.

Emma's mind was a horrible mess patched together with the mental equivalent of wishful thinking and school paste. Unfortunately, he recognized the damage all too well. He'd been extensively briefed during the war on the effects of the Dalek mind probe, although he didn't understand how she had been subjected to it. She'd been a prisoner of the Time Agency, not the Daleks.

Walking through a rocky landscape that represented her fractured psyche, he couldn't help but be impressed. Somehow, she'd learnt to compensate for the damage done to her by creating an entirely new persona. Her past regenerations were hidden underneath huge piles of boulders, as were her more painful memories. Mentally rolling up his sleeves, he got to work on uncovering her true self.

It took longer than he had thought, and her body grew increasingly weak as he progressed. Finally, her mindscape was free of the boulders, and everything was smooth, if a bit dry and dusty. Now the truly difficult part began.

Six distinct personalities stood around in a ring, all of them suspicious and upset. He knew the child represented her psyche at its most vulnerable, so he left her alone for the time being. The other identities took the shape of the bodies she had inhabited throughout her regenerations. There was his love as she had appeared in Greece when their lives had torn apart. There was the woman he had disappointed during the halcyon days of Gallifrey's past when he had served as President. There was the grim operative who had ruthlessly conducted missions for the Celestial Intervention Agency without a second thought. Next to her stood a different version of that same spy, her face worn from the strain of betraying one person too many. And, standing to his right, was the image of a frail young woman, a woman who vacillated between excitement and terror as she belatedly understood that it might be possible to be whole.

"Why have you let out the others? Doran said to ignore them, so I buried them under rocks. They all want me to die."

"Die?" he asked as if the very idea was preposterous. "Why would any of these lovely ladies wish you dead?

Her other selves responded not with words, but with forceful emotions. Guilt, remorse, shame, revulsion, worthlessness—these intense feelings spun around and around the young woman like a growing tornado. It ripped up the earth, consuming all the figures until only Emma's most recent remained. She was trapped within the storm, a prisoner contained by a giant chasm of self-made accusations and bitter regret

"DOCTOR!"

For her, he braved the tempest. A maelstrom of negativity sliced through his consciousness, but he refused to recognize it. Reaching the eye of the storm, he wrapped his mind around hers, shielding her from the worst of herself.

Shouting over the howling wind, he begged for her life. "You don't belong here, Emma! You can't let your guilt consume you!"

"I do! You don't know what I've done, Doc! I've become a monster! Death is the only option!"

The whirlwind immediately intensified, and sharp, thin, whip-like cuts appeared on her body. Reacting immediately he vehemently yanked her out of the path of the storm. They tumbled together, rolling along a rocky ledge until they both came to rest against a stone bench. Panting, they lay entangled as they watched the storm continue to rage in the walled canyon.

Regretfully, he withdrew from her mind. Their timelines were too far apart at that juncture to risk the deep mental connection he so desired. He had to settle for comforting her physically, although there was little he could do to ease her suffering.

Taking her hand in his, he gazed soulfully at the woman he would never see again. "Hello, Emma."

"I always knew you'd come back for me. I never guessed it would be at the end."

"Hardly the end," he promised with a brief, sad smile. "You haven't even gotten to the good parts."

"I'm dying."

"You'll regenerate."

"I can't. I'm on Galbon. He thinks I'm his daughter. I can't do that to him. I owe him a body he can bury, a child he can mourn."

He didn't have to ask her the identity of 'He'. Most of the nightmares the first few years after their reunion had concerned Rouchmel, the man she had fallen in love with and ultimately betrayed. Longing to reassure her, he swallowed his tears. Here, in this place, at this time, the danger of spoilers was all too real.

"Emma, look at me, really look. What do you see?"

Ignoring her physical ailments, she took a moment to intently peer at him. Something was wrong, and in the blink of an eye she grasped his dilemma.

"You've suffered so much. How far ahead are you?"

He studied the runes carved on the walls of the dank, putrid cellar wishing he could tell her. "I can't say. And, I truly am sorry, but I can't stay. I just wanted to . . . ."

"Tell me goodbye," she whispered, a solitary tear slipping down her cheek. "You came here to say goodbye."

"You always were terribly clever."

He shifted his weight as he prepared to stand, but she feebly grabbed at his arm. He hoped he'd have the strength to bear the last words he'd ever hear her say.

"Forgive me. The things I said to you—"

"Are already forgotten," he promised tenderly.

"Thank you, Beloved. I regret so many things, but our separation most of all."

"As do I."

Standing, he forced himself to walk to the TARDIS. His ship sang a mournful lament as he entered the console room, but it did little good. He was leaving her to die alone on a doomed planet. No matter that he knew the ultimate outcome, he'd never felt more like a coward.


	19. Regeneration

**Author's Notes** - I don't really know what to say. It's been so long since I updated that everyone must think the story abandoned. It isn't, although I did spend a rather long time sulking. I've never lost data on the computer before, but with Peace at Any Price I lost a third of the story. The thought of trying to recapture my thoughts and writing them down was overwhelming and for a while I simply refused to do it. For a long time it didn't bother me. This story has few readers and even fewer reviews. It was easy to ignore it. But, this is the one I've always wanted to write. So, I'm giving it another try. I can't promise I'll update weekly and I don't expect much feedback. But, eventually, it will be finished. And, I can only hope it's something I can be proud of. -Thanks, Imorgen

* * *

><p>Long after the sound of the TARDIS had faded, Emma battled her personal demons. No matter what the Doctor had said, she didn't deserve to live. If she returned to the Time War, what would she be? The best assassin at Brax's disposal? The spy who could always be counted on to twist the knife?<p>

She simply wasn't that woman anymore. She couldn't be and keep her soul intact. She'd changed. Perhaps the Daleks had, indeed, broken her. It mattered little. In death she had found a way out. And through the pain, she accepted it.

* * *

><p>Doran tumbled out of the Time Vortex in a flash of light to find himself in complete darkness. His other senses tried to compensate even as he reached into his pocket to pull out a torch. The smell of blood and sick mixed with humid, fetid air. Covering his mouth, he shone the focused beam of light around the dripping stone walls.<p>

He found her in the far corner of the room. Still as a corpse, her dark woolen skirt was wet with blood, though her hearts still weakly beat. He slit the garment open down the middle, ready to dress her wounds, but when he saw the vast amount of blood that had pooled beneath her legs, he gave a ragged cry.

"Melina, no. Not this way. Please, sweetheart. Wake up. You have to wake up!"

As he clutched her body to him, she slowly opened her eyes, though her awareness was tenuous.

"Doran?"

Panicked, he seized his one opportunity. "Listen to me, sweetheart. I made a mess of things, but you're going to be fine if you just listen to me. You don't have to die. Do you hear me? You don't have to die. All you have to do is change. Your body's going to die, and you're going to change, but you have to help it along. You just need to concentrate on changing, alright? Melina? Melina, please, talk to me. Melina!"

She gazed blearily at his face. "Doran?"

"Melina! You don't have to die! Do you understand? You don't have to die!"

Her gaze lazily travelled up the dark ceiling. On the verge of tears, he didn't think she noticed him at all.

"Father."

His voice caught as he realized that whether she lived or died, Rouchmel would lose her once more. Melina wasn't his daughter. She had, if he understood it correctly, been his concubine. There had never been a babe, only a desperate ploy by a desperate people to gain some valuable time in a war they very well might lose.

Still, she didn't know that, not damaged as she was. She loved him like a father; perhaps that was the key to her salvation. Tenderly, he wiped the dirt and bile off her face before kissing her on the forehead.

"Rouchmel's not here. But, you can see him again. Just change. All you have to do is change. You don't have to die. Please, don't die."

She didn't answer, and he grew ever more anxious. Taking her pulse, he was devastated to learn only one heart beat in her chest. When it began to falter, he pleaded with a quiet desperation.

"I love you, sweetheart. I should have told you that long ago. You're my second chance, my only chance. Please, don't leave. You have to regenerate. Please, Emma, just regenerate. I know you're confused and scared, but somewhere deep down, you must understand. Your name is Emma, not Melina. You're a Time Lord. You don't have to die; you just have to regenerate."

"My name?"

Tears dripped down his face as he managed a tremulous smile. "That's right. I figured it out. It's Emma, not Ilsa and not Melina. Really, it's a beautiful name, very you. You just have to remember. I know it must be difficult, but try to think. You don't have to die; just regenerate."

For the first time, she appeared to fight against fate. Though she struggled to breathe, she gripped his arm as she rasped out a few words.

"Easier . . . to . . . let go."

Incensed, he had the insane urge to strike her. She couldn't give up, not now! Not when he had found her. Not when he finally understood. He wasn't going to let the future he'd glimpsed crumble. Her death was the one thing he wouldn't accept, not here, not now.

"You're a fighter. You don't get easy. You get a war and Daleks and my psychotic ex-partner. And, none of it matters. Because somewhere down the road you and I and the Doctor make a life for ourselves." Taking a cleansing breath, he smiled, willing her to understand. "Two lives, actually. Twins, a boy and a girl. So, you have to regenerate 'cause I finally have a future worth fighting for. Please, Emma. Fight this. I know how strong you can be. I've seen so many of your faces, and they're all beautiful. Please, if you feel anything for me at all, you have to regenerate. Don't take the easy way out now."

Her eyes closed as her lungs failed to inflate with air. Devastated, he cradled her in his arms, whispering apology after apology into her deaf ears. He had come so close only to have his future ripped away. Perhaps it was fitting; he finally understood what Gray must have experienced on that horrible day.

Still, he had a duty to Rouchmel. He'd bring her body back for his friend to mourn. There was no reason to tell the monarch the sad truth. He'd lost his love once; there was no reason to tarnish her image anew. Bad enough he would mourn a daughter he'd never had.

Desolately, he brought his lips to hers one last time. As he poured his grief into one last caress, her eyes flew open. Stupefied, he bent over her, his mouth agape. With a gasp, she feebly tried to push him away.

"Back," she wheezed as her face took on a strange golden hue. "Back," she ordered more forcefully as her entire body seemed to buzz with energy. "Not safe."

Her eyes squeezed shut and Doran sensed a charge in the air as if lightning were about to strike. Finally understanding, he scrambled away from her to crouch down in the corner opposite her, though he refused to turn away. Whatever happened, he vowed to embrace it. The body of the woman he loved exploded in a shower of golden light. Shielding his eyes, he watched a miracle unfold. Melina had died, but in her place lay a raven-haired beauty who matched him in age.

Without thought, he flew to her side. Two hearts beat rhythmically in her chest. She breathed without difficulty, though a golden wisp of energy escaped her mouth like a soap bubble riding a current of air. Gently shaking her shoulder, he tried to make her wake. Like a princess in the ancient fairytales, however, she seemed to be in an enchanted sleep.

With a silent apology to Rouchmel, he gripped her hand as he activated preset coordinates stored in his Vortex Manipulator. Emma needed a safe place to rest and recover. His throat aching with emotion, Doran acknowledged that Galbon no longer fit that definition. The two disappeared in a flash leaving the squalid cellar silent, dark and empty.

* * *

><p>As death quickened its steps, Emma fought against being dragged into a new life. She'd done her duty. No one, not even the Doctor could deny the sacrifices she'd made fighting the Daleks. She'd lost her daughter, her granddaughter, the love of a good man and countless friends to the metal monsters. They'd torn out her heart, tarnished her soul, and ultimately ravaged her mind.<p>

No more. She was dying, and by Rassilon she would suffer no more. To a few, her death would be a tragedy, but in truth her life was nothing more than a miniscule tangle on the vast Web of Time. Far better for Rouchmel to grieve over his daughter than to discover that his love had betrayed him yet again.

Rouchmel—she had loved him once. Why then, did her thoughts stray so much to the Time Agent who had saved her? Why, when she denied her body the regenerative energy it so desperately needed, did her hearts ache with sorrow? Why did she mourn something that had barely begun?

Doran had risked his life to save a girl who'd shattered into tiny pieces. He'd patched her up like a child gluing together a broken toy or a man trying desperately to save one good thing as he drowned in a sea of horrors. As kind as he was, he couldn't possibly love her, not the real her at any rate.

If he knew the truth he would be as wounded as Rouchmel had been at her original betrayal. She had duped him in prison, played him like a fool as she had masterfully manipulated his emotions. No amount of explaining that he had become so much more would ever do. He'd see nothing but the cold spy using him for her own gain, and that would break him more than her death ever could.

For his sake she would die. But, why did it hurt? Why regret? Why now, at the end, when it was far too late for second chances? Why couldn't she have died as Melina, ignorant of her true nature? Why had the Doctor made death so damn hard?

* * *

><p>When a flash of light briefly illuminated her dark tomb, Emma was far too weak to care. On the brink of unconsciousness, she felt strong hands gripping her arms, pulling her into one last embrace. A surge of grief and fear and panic that was not her own tugged her into a higher state of awareness.<p>

"Doran?"

Did she dream in her final moments? Was this a last gift of her subconscious? His pleas that she change seemed all too real. He'd said he made a mess of things, but certainly that was her. Why, though, would he ask her to change? How had he learned of the possibility of regeneration? Was she hallucinating, or had something fundamental shifted in his understanding? She gazed blearily at his face trying to decide if he was a fact or a comforting fiction.

"Doran?"

"Melina! You don't have to die! Do you understand? You don't have to die!"

By the Lady Time herself, he was real! She looked up into the darkness too ashamed to meet his gaze. He might know her species, but he couldn't understand the truth of her duplicity. For his sake, for Rouchmel's sake, she had to die.

"Father," she breathed hoping against hope that Doran had somehow learned enough to know she lied.

"Rouchmel's not here. But, you can see him again. Just change. All you have to do is change. You don't have to die. Please, don't die."

He didn't understand. How could he? He thought her nothing more than Rouchmel's daughter and his innocent love. Really, it made her decision all the easier. She needed to die, and by a beneficent quirk of fate, she would do so in her lover's arms.

First one heart stopped and then the other began to falter under the strain. She barely had to fight her instincts anymore. Death was so close that regeneration had dimmed to a slim possibility. She thought she would die in peace until Doran broke her heart.

"I love you, sweetheart. I should have told you that long ago. You're my second chance, my only chance. Please, don't leave. You have to regenerate. Please, Emma, just regenerate. I know you must be confused and scared, but somewhere deep down, you must understand. Your name is Emma, not Melina. You're a Time Lord. You don't have to die; you just have to regenerate."

How did he know? How could he possibly know?

"My name?"

Tears dripped down his face as he managed a tremulous smile. "That's right. I figured it out. It's Emma, not Ilsa and not Melina. Really, it's a beautiful name, very you. You just have to remember. I know it must be difficult, but try to think. You don't have to die; just regenerate."

She couldn't believe it. He knew her name. He knew she wasn't the innocent victim she had pretended to be. And, still he cried for her, smiled for her, begged for her to live. How could she accept such devotion? She had been twisted by the War into something repulsive and repugnant. She couldn't chance tainting him. He had to understand. Though she struggled to breathe, she gripped his arm as she rasped out a few words.

"Easier . . . to . . . let go."

Broiling anger exploded in her mind. Impossibly, it came from him. She battled the encroaching darkness in an effort to understand.

"You're a fighter. You don't get easy. You get a war and Daleks and my psychotic ex-partner. And, none of it matters. Because somewhere down the road you and I and the Doctor make a life for ourselves."

He smiled, and she could feel his determination as his love enveloped her mind.

"Two lives, actually. Twins, a boy and a girl. So, you have to regenerate 'cause I finally have a future worth fighting for. Please, Emma. Fight this. I know how strong you can be. I've seen so many of your faces, and they're all beautiful. Please, if you feel anything for me at all, you have to regenerate. Don't take the easy way out now."

Her eyes closed as her lungs failed to inflate with air. Her failing body was nothing compared to the turmoil in her mind. He'd asked her to fight. He'd called her beautiful—her, not the frail child he'd made her to be. While she dismissed his version of the future as nothing more than fantasy, she couldn't dismiss his faith. He knew about the War, the Daleks; he even knew about the Doctor. She'd once promised him that she believed in second chances, and here he was offering her a third. How could she deny him now?

As she finally fought to live, a new, urgent fear blossomed. Had she left it too late? She felt nothing as she triggered her regeneration. There was no rush of exhilaration, no overabundance of life, nothing but the darkness eating the edges of her consciousness. If she could have screamed, she would have, but it was far too late for even that.

And then, he kissed her, kissed her with an anguish strong enough to temporarily pull her from the abyss. Her eyes flew open as her body began to tingle. Gasping in one last breath, she feebly tried to push him away, but he didn't move.

"Back," she wheezed as her face took on a strange golden hue. "Back," she ordered more forcefully as her entire body buzzed with regeneration energy. Why couldn't she make him understand? With herculean effort, she rasped out. "Not safe."

Her eyes squeezed shut as her autonomic systems took control. As her ruined body died and her new self exploded into being, she could only hope that Doran had gotten out of the way. It was the last thought she had before her conscious mind completely shut down. Perhaps she'd left it too late after all.


	20. The Horrors of War

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up. Come on, two days of beauty sleep is more than enough."

Doran's rakish grin faded as the silence stretched. Emma hadn't regained consciousness since regenerating forty-nine hours prior. He had begun to worry that she wouldn't. Self-consciously taking her hand, he considered the differences between her old body and new.

No longer elfin, her body curved, from her shapely thighs right up to her voluptuous breasts. Almost as tall as he, hard muscles underscored the softer portions of her figure. Her hair was the color of the darkest raven, her lips a sensual red, and if he were a poet, he might describe her skin as white as snow.

It wasn't, of course, but her pallor worried him almost as much as the strange golden energy which occasionally still burst from her mouth. His wrist strap documented it as a variant of artron energy, and he feared something had gone horribly wrong in a process he couldn't even begin to fathom.

Mostly, though, he worried about her mind. Did she still believe herself to be Melina? Or had her memories returned when her body had changed? And, if she truly had reverted to her Time Lord self, would she want to have anything to do with him?

At least they were safe for the moment. He'd had this haven prepared for several years now, although he'd hoped never to have to use it. The supposedly sustainable biosphere he'd secreted inside one of the largest asteroids in the Omega Nebula was accessible only by Vortex Manipulator or long-range teleport. Unfortunately, he'd bought the closed environment secondhand, and it had definitely seen better days.

When he wasn't sitting anxiously by Emma's side, he spent most of his time cleaning the algae pools, which did not produce as much oxygen as advertised. By his calculations, they had three more days before the oxygen level in the living quarters dipped below safe levels. If Emma didn't wake by then, he'd have to take her to Sto and hope for the best. At least she no longer looked like the Agency's escaped prisoner.

An alarm began to blare in the distance. With a sigh, he kissed her forehead before heading out the tiny living space to deal with the latest emergency. If he hadn't been so adept at mechanics, the biosphere would have failed hours ago. He could only hope his temporary patches would hold until she woke. Then, maybe, if he were lucky, she might have a plan. He certainly didn't.

* * *

><p>Stretching, Emma experienced the oddness of her new skin. Her body was no longer lithe and petite, but solid and muscular. Although, from the brief pat down she gave herself, she had padding in all the right places. Finally opening her eyes, she found herself in a modular sleeping compartment whose gray walls were as unappealing as they were cold. She took in a deep breath, immediately noticing that the carbon dioxide level was a tad bit higher than a standard Earth atmosphere.<p>

Standing, she bumped her head on the low ceiling. As she rubbed the forming bruise, she noticed two doors leading from the small room. The first opened to a dark hallway while the second revealed a basic area to take care of one's bodily needs. As she performed a more thorough search of the utilitarian space, she discovered undergarments and a jumpsuit that looked to be her size. That decided her; she would take a shower and dress before doing any more exploring.

Eight minutes later, she quickly turned off the faucet to the shower as the water temperature went from tepid to freezing. Briskly drying off with a thin towel, she studied herself in the small magnifying mirror. She appeared young, but not so young that one might mistake her for an adolescent. There were faint creases around her mouth and eyes if one looked very closely. Her black hair cascaded halfway down her back; she thought the length more of an annoyance than asset. Deftly, she put her wet hair in a long braid as she vowed to shorten it when she found a pair of scissors.

The clothing fit well, except where the fabric strained against her chest. She left the zipper down as far as decency allowed and smiled in amusement. The dark blue jumpsuit made her look like one of those pinup girls the Time Agency used in its recruitment vids.

The Time Agency! It all came rushing back—the Daleks, the Time Corridor, her imprisonment and torture. Staggering to the bed, she clutched her head as she recalled the more painful memories. Her stomach churned as she realized where she had spent the last year. Was there no end to Rouchmel's suffering? Although she couldn't remember the events leading up to her regeneration, she knew she had betrayed him yet again, albeit in innocence this time rather than cold calculation.

Then, her mind turned to Doran and her stomach churned for an entirely different reason. Had they been separated? Was he a prisoner of the Time Agency once again? Was she? If she found him would he understand her duplicity, or had she lost him already?

As her thoughts became a torrent, the door leading to the dark corridor creaked open. Warily, she looked up to see a beaming Doran duck through the entrance.

"You're awake! Just in the nick of time too, because this biosphere won't last more than another day. I just had to flush the nutrient solution with . . . ." He trailed off, suddenly unsure.

"Emma? You look a little confused. How are you feeling?"

She could feel his concern, which unsettled her greatly. Telepath or no, she should not be able to sense his emotions without making contact first. And, how did he know her name? When had she told him?

"You know my name."

If she hadn't already been sitting down, she would have staggered under the weight of his despair. Almost gingerly, he sat down beside her, his expression morose. When he took her hand, she let out a shuddering breath at the extent of his devastation.

"Yeah, I do. You made the name Ilsa up, remember? And Melina was the one your—that Rouchmel gave you. But you've had a name all along, just not one you could remember. It's Emma. I like it; it suits you, sweetheart. But, if you want to go back to being called Melina that's okay, too."

His voice started to waver. Automatically, she tried to rest her head against his chest, but with her height had to settle for resting against his shoulder instead. As he played with her braid, he continued to talk, although the subject was obviously a difficult one for him.

"We can't go back to Galbon. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it's got to be, sweetheart. Rouchmel . . . ." His voice cracked. "He wouldn't understand. And, it's not safe for you anymore. Unless . . . do you remember who kidnapped you?"

She'd been kidnapped? She didn't recall anything of the sort. The last thing she had remembered was Hanna putting up her hair for the interstellar trade conference's reception. Everything after that was a blank. Her head ached terribly as she strained to remember. Pressing her hands tightly against her temples, she demanded answers.

"How did you learn my name? Did I tell you? When was I kidnapped? Is that why I regenerated? You said Rouchmel wouldn't understand. Do you? How did you find me? I can't remember much after Hanna fixed my hair for the trade reception. Was I kidnapped from my room or later?"

She could feel a tiny shred of hope kindle deep in his heart.

"You understand the concept of regeneration? I don't have to explain what's happened to you?"

Her mouth gaped. Then, with a jolt, she understood. He thought her still addled. Well, she could reassure him on that point, at least.

She faced him sheepishly. "I seem to have regained my mind. I'm a Time Lord; of course I know about regeneration. The question is: how do you?"

His surge of joy stole the breath from her lungs. Something was horribly wrong. Perhaps her psychic barriers had eroded after such a difficult transition from one body to the next.

Staggering off the bed as she clutched her head, she put some distance between them. It helped, but not nearly as much as she had hoped.

"Doran? Do you think you could tamp down your excitement for the moment? Your emotions are a little too much right now."

His resulting anxiety sent her to her knees. Just as she thought she would black out from the sensory overload, he abruptly appeared in her mindscape. Astounded, she could only watch as he approached. He wore black trousers and an orange wool tunic, simple in its design but elegant and refined in its tailoring. His eyes were ablaze with conviction and he walked with the confidence of one comfortable in his own skin. She couldn't help but wonder where this strange, self-assured Doran had come from, or how easily her mind relaxed under his skillful care.

His mental caress was gentle and tender and a balm to her confused thoughts. She found herself luxuriating in his attention, all worries temporarily held at bay. Only belatedly did she understand exactly what place he occupied in her psyche.

"This is impossible," she murmured as he teased her pleasure center. "You can't be here. I'm already bonded."

"I can be into bondage."

He answered cheekily, aggressively propelling her senses into a haze of bliss even as she began to panic over the loss of control. He'd been in her mind before, but never like this, never so assertive, never in a place so intimate, never in a place she long thought reserved solely for another.

Alarmed by his dominance, she tried to push him out of her mind, but his hold over her was too firm. As she vainly struggled against the intrusion, he tightened his embrace, but her discomfort didn't increase. In fact, the tighter their minds entwined, the more contented she felt, as if his very being encompassed some hitherto unknown portion of her soul.

Equally frightened and exhilarated, she walked alone in a cold, vast desert of sand wondering how a human's mind could possibly be so complex. After hiking up and down rolling dunes for what seemed like hours, she finally caught a glimpse of him. He stood in the distance on the top of a steep rise of sand wielding a shining sword like a heroic knight in a fairytale.

As he turned towards her, her perception shifted until they stood mere feet apart. Studying him, her mind boggled. His familiar features seemed so alien in the stark mindscape, and he radiated strength of character that in the past year she had only begun to suspect he possessed.

"Doran?"

He broke out in a wide grin and joyfully uttered her name—her name, not Emma or the Emissary or Melina or the scores of other aliases she had used throughout her long life, but her one true name, the one woven into the fabric of Time itself. And yet, he was a stranger, a stranger with whom she had shared an intimacy so profound that he knew her better than she perhaps knew herself. Hesitantly, she reached up to touch his cheek to assure herself that he was in fact real. His grin faded a bit as his eyes sobered with tender compassion.

"Hey, it's okay, Sweetheart. You're not hallucinating. I'm as real as it gets."

Her shrill reply held the threat of hysteria. "Who are you?"

In a dazzling flash, he showed her glimpses of a future she could barely comprehend. Reeling, she asked the first question that popped into her mind.

"How can you—?"

"Spoilers," he warned with a rakish gleam in his blue eyes. "Though, technically, you might say I'm cheating. My younger self ran from you, panicked because he caused you pain. I have four point seven minutes before he realizes what an ass he's been."

"You are Doran, then?"

For the first time, the man's confidence wavered. Oddly, that fact comforted her. It made him seem more human.

"I was. He'll always be a part of me, a part I don't regret."

"But . . .?"

He sidestepped the question. "But, nothing. Life is fantastic, Sweetheart."

"All those things I saw . . . ."

"I'd spare you the worst if I could. If you don't believe anything else, at least believe that."

She had no desire to change her future. In the midst of so much pain, she'd seen equal amounts of joy, oftentimes too closely entwined to unravel one without damaging the other. But, she understood his temptation. It was one faced by every time traveler, Time Lord and human alike.

"You shouldn't be crossing your own timeline like this. It's dangerous."

"It's necessary. Our timelines are so tangled that our bond reverberates backwards as well as forward. At this linear point, though, it's one-sided. When I tried to fix the damage done by the Dalek mind probe, I went too deep into your psyche. That's when I first bonded with you, but neither one of us are currently aware of it." He appeared sheepish. "Sorry, that's one of the reasons why you're having such a difficult time blocking my emotions."

She'd never heard of such, although she immediately believed him. Having proven just how much control he wielded over her, he had no reason to lie. Still, the idea of being bonded to more than one person made her extremely uncomfortable.

"What about the Doctor?"

"What about him?" He asked with a smirk, tantalizingly using the Doctor's true name. "He's not one to talk, since he's already crossed this particular timeline to fix the damage I couldn't. In fact, when you remember this, you can thank him for restoring your mind before your body died. You wouldn't have regenerated otherwise."

"He . . . ." She staggered at Doran's use of her bondmate's name. "The three of us?"

He once again stroked those parts of her psyche sure to bring pleasure. "A triumvirate—your phrase, not mine—but highly appropriate."

Rassilon, but he was smug, and definitely holding something back. She could sense that even if she couldn't discern the secret. Before she could ask for more information, though, he began to tinker with her mental barriers.

This time, knowing it was for her own good, she didn't fight against him. He worked quickly and efficiently, focused too much on his task to impart any further information. Finished, he abruptly pulled out of her mind, leaving her alone and surprisingly bereft.

Drained, she gazed up at his face as he checked her pulses. His appearance surprised her. She had assumed him to be much older. As she stared at him quizzically, he seemed to understand her question.

"I moisturize," he stated dryly before injecting her in the arm with a hypospray.

Reflexively, she attempted to sit up, but the sedative was a fast acting one.

"Why?"

In a very Doran gesture, he kissed her forehead. "Sorry, Sweetheart. Too many spoilers. When you wake up, you'll feel better. I promise."

She could only hope he was right.

* * *

><p>Racing out of the sleeping area, Doran couldn't believe his cowardice. The thought that he had caused Emma's distress, however, was too great to bear. She was a Time Lord, a race millions of years more advanced than his own. What had he done while trying to repair such an intricate mind that now caused her so much pain? Would she ever be able to tolerate his presence again?<p>

Pacing around the algae pools, he fought conflicting desires. He wanted to help Emma. No matter how different she looked, he loved the woman whose memories he'd shared. Yet, he couldn't handle her rejection. He'd seen their possible future, a beautiful future, but as a Time Agent, he understood the fragility of potential timelines. He may have ruined his last chance before he knew it as a possibility.

After several minutes of pacing he knew he had to return. The future he so desired would never be written if he simply left her on the floor to suffer like an insensitive coward. Preparing himself for an angry rebuff, he trudged back to the tiny bedroom only to find her unconscious on the floor, a yellow piece of paper clutched in her hand.

Once he determined that she breathed easily, he tucked her back into bed. Wryly, he hoped he wouldn't be forced to pick her up again. Emma's new body wasn't nearly as petite as her last one. Only then did he glance at the scrap of yellow paper.

He instantly recognized the handwriting as his own. Intrigued, he read the note.

_Give her tea. Tell her you love her. Don't fuck up._

Well, that was short and to the point, although the tea advice was simply bizarre. He knew without looking that tea wasn't one of the beverages he'd stocked in the biosphere; hypervodka, on the other hand . . . . Still, his future self must have written that instruction for a reason; he couldn't simply ignore it. After a moment's thought, he knew just the place.

* * *

><p>"Starship UK?! You brought me to Starship UK?!"<p>

Doran winced at the shrill, outraged tone in Emma's voice. He'd thought it a fantastic idea at the time, but now he wasn't so sure. Mutely, he handed her a cup of Earl Gray. She sipped it silently as her eyes swept the palatial bedroom. He swiftly decided to follow instruction number two.

"The Time Agency isn't interested in this period of history. I thought it'd be a safe place for you to recover from your regeneration. I love you too much to let the Daleks find you, sweetheart."

Her eyes went wide, although he wasn't sure if she'd reacted to his utterance of the Daleks' name or his heartfelt declaration. Mutely, she drank two more cups of tea as he grew increasingly nervous. Just as he'd begun to fear he'd fucked it up, she put down her cup to take his hand. But the dour expression on her face didn't give him much hope.

"I'm not Melina, Doran. I'm not that innocent girl you thought you'd rescued from the Time Agency. I haven't been that innocent in a long, long time. I'm an assassin and a spy who's been fighting in a war for longer than you can ever hope to live."

"I know," he argued, unwilling to let her wallow in her multitude of sins. "Emma, I know. I've seen some of your worst memories, remember? I know what you did on Galbon, and I know why. I know your daughter died in front of you-twice. I know you isolated yourself for centuries the first time. I know how lonely you were. I know you'd lost hope. But, you got on with your life. Just like you did after the Daleks shattered your mind. It would have been easier to give up, but you didn't. You fought, sweetheart. And, I love you for that."

Her voice began to quaver. "You think you know me? I'm nothing more than a killer. I'm not worthy of anyone's love."

Tenderly, he caressed her hand. "That's not true. Killing doesn't make you a killer. I've seen you agonize over what the war's forced you to do. Emma, you're more than worthy."

She pulled away her hand as if he'd scalded her. Her icy blue eyes boring into his, she ruthlessly recited a list of her crimes.

"Thirty million dead on Hoxtan after I kidnapped Sultan Poi's daughter during the Fair Trade Talks. A preemptive thermonuclear strike on Pennavi after I danced with Willard the Cruel. The collapse of New New Zealand's economy after I bribed a corrupt official. Zladda torn apart by opposing black holes. The annihilation of the Embre on Chaku Seven. The killing of untold trillions after I ensured that the first three solar systems conquered by Skaro never supported life. The Cyber conversion of eight million on Lotus because—"

He couldn't take it anymore. She was tearing herself apart as viciously as her alternate personalities had on Galbon. Desperately, he gripped her shoulders.

"Stop! Just stop! You have to stop! You can't do this to yourself, Emma! You're fighting a war! Of course there's going to be casualties!"

She pushed him away forcefully enough to send him reeling. Facing him, she raged, her screams brimming with agony and torment.

"Dalek casualties! There should be Dalek casualties, Doran! Not innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire! Not people deemed to be acceptable losses because they aren't Time Lords! Not people I've laughed with, eaten with, not people I've loved!"

Her jaw visibly trembled, and he could only watch as she crumbled before him.

"I never wanted to hurt him. He was a good man, a kind man. He reminded me so much of someone I had loved and lost so long ago. I never intended to fall in love again; it just happened. I begged and pleaded with the Council that they find another way. Brax told me they had and I believed him. And, all that time, Leska kept dosing me with minute traces of the poison so I could ingest a fatal dose and survive."

"Sweetheart, I know—"

Tears running down her cheeks, she cut him off. "You don't know this, Doran! Leska dosed me with the poison for months. It affected my metabolism. I began to lose an alarming amount of weight, and he had to give me hormones to counteract it."

Sniffling, Emma took a deep shuddering breath before she could continue, but he had a horrible suspicion that he knew how her story ended.

"The hormones—they had an unexpected side effect. My genetic structure, it's a throwback to the Dark Times, a one in a trillion anomaly. I think I knew that day, but I was too scared to acknowledge it. So I blamed the sickness I felt on nerves and refused to consider that the Council didn't give a damn about a planet that would eventually fall to the Daleks anyway. I woke up in the critical infirmary of the Citadel. The mission had been a great success. There had been only one complication, and the healer assured me that it had been dealt with discreetly."

Although she spat the words with pure venom, her legs shook. Before he could move, she collapsed to the plush, carpeted floor, great sobs wracking her frame. Sitting beside her, tears slipped down his face as she bawled against his chest.

"I would have kept it. It was my child as much as Rouchmel's. No one asked. No one. Because not one of them could imagine how a Time Lord could sully herself by carrying a bastard half-breed to term. You think we fight because we're some honorable race protecting those who can't? We're nothing more than a bunch of arrogant prigs who couldn't be bothered with the Daleks until they threatened what we held most dear—ourselves."

Still crying, she gazed miserably at him. The self-loathing behind her red-rimmed eyes broke his heart.

"Don't love me, Doran, please. I don't want to destroy you, too."

With a tremulous smile, he gently wiped away her tears with his thumbs. "You never could. You've already saved me, Emma. Before you, my life had no meaning. Live or die, I will always love you."

"Doran, please, I don't—"

He stopped her protest with a tender kiss. "Of course you do. You're a good person. A good person who's been forced by war to do horrible things. I'm so sorry about the baby. I wish I could undo the pain I caused by taking you to Galbon. I know I can never take Rouchmel's place. I don't expect you to love me in return. But, I love you, sweetheart. You are the strongest, the bravest, the best person I have ever met."

She opened her lips to protest once more, but he took the opportunity to plumb the depths of her mouth. When she didn't immediately pull away, he could only hope he'd been given another chance. He used his hands, his fingertips, his mouth, his lips, his tongue to wholeheartedly demonstrate her worthiness. Eventually, she acquiesced, although her deep blue eyes still reflected a hint of disbelief.

He murmured in her ear. "You just have to believe in second chances, sweetheart. You taught me that."

Turning towards him, she crinkled her brow as if she faced a particularly difficult conundrum. "Why me?"

The answer he'd given her much younger self on Gallifrey proved just as valid now. "Because I love you and you need me."

Lying on the carpeting, she considered his answer before running her fingers through his hair. "It scares me sometimes."

"What? That I love you?"

"That you love me so much. I'm scared I'll disappoint you."

"You can't."

Wearily, she rubbed her eyes. He could see a maelstrom of self-doubt swimming below the surface of her blue irises.

"Doran, I'm not some ideal for you to put on a pedestal. You know what I've done."

"No," he solemnly agreed. "You're not. But, I'm not looking for an ideal. Hell, I think someone like that would intimidate me if you want to know the truth. I don't love you because you're perfect, Emma. I love you because you don't give up."

"What if I do?"

"I won't let you."

In that moment, something changed. Her doubts, while still present, finally gave way to hope. Straddling him, she intently studied his face. "You won't leave me?"

"No, sweetheart. No matter what, I won't ever leave you."

Reaching up, Doran traced her lips with his finger. Her eyes closed, and for the first time since she had awoken in her new body, he saw a measure of peace on her face. Exulting in their new second chance, he pulled her down towards him. As their lips melded together, he silently thanked his future self for giving him impeccable advice. He would give her tea. He would tell her he loved her. And, most importantly, he wouldn't fuck up.

**Author's Notes** - Not so much action in this chapter, but an important one nonetheless. And, I promise that's the end of the timey-wimeyness for a while as Emma has to make a decision about her continuing role in the war.


	21. To Con a Conman

**Author's Notes** - Hi! Long time no post! But, I am still working on Peace at Any Price. In fact, one of my new year's resolutions is to finish it before the summer. (We'll see.) If you're one of the nine awesome people who have regularly followed this story, then you'll have noticed I changed the category from Doctor Who to the crossover category of Doctor Who/Torchwood. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure where to post this particular tale. If you have an opinion, let me know.

A note about the Orgons/Ogrons in this story. The Ogrons appear in the Doctor Who episodes _Day of the Daleks and Frontier in Space_. They are usually associated with the Daleks, and serve as their henchmen, for lack of a better word. When I wrote the earlier chapters, I relied on my memory of a TV episode I had watched thirty years ago and ended up transposing the second two letters in the Ogrons' name. So, for anyone with a detailed knowledge of Old Who, Orgon should be Ogron. I've changed it in later chapters like this, but have left the mistake in the earlier chapters due to the difficulty of correcting it. Sorry if it bothers anyone.

I'm sure the chapter title gives it away, but Doran underestimates Emma once again. Although he knows she's not Melina, he's lived with that personality for almost a year. It's difficult for him to adjust to her true self in a manner of days. Hope you enjoy!

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Eyes flying open, Emma tensed as the vestiges of her nightmare jolted her awake. She'd been . . . . She couldn't recall anything but a sense of desolation. She reached back to touch Doran's hip in reassurance. He hadn't left, although she didn't understand why. Surely, he could have his pick of women (and men). Why would he bother with someone as damaged as she?

Sitting up, she looked around the opulent bedchamber, questioning for the first time just whom Doran knew on Starship UK. Of all the places he could have taken her, he'd chosen to hide in plain sight. Recklessness or genius, she couldn't shake the fear that their respite would be short.

Fighting to calm her mind, she gazed tenderly at the man sleeping beside her. He'd done everything humanly possible the night before to convince her of his devotion. In fact, he'd declared his love for her six times, a rather startling figure considering how much he'd shied away from the same declaration on Galbon.

The words didn't matter, although she rejoiced in his newfound confidence. She could sense his profound commitment hovering on the edge of her consciousness. While muted enough that it didn't overwhelm her, the newly regenerated Time Lord still found the idea of such a deep mental connection troubling. At the same time, it was comforting enough that she didn't wish to block it.

Knowing she would sleep no more that night, she quietly slid out of bed. As a human, Doran needed far more sleep than she. A quick exploration revealed a lavish gilded bathroom that sported an elaborate sonic shower. Her disappointment at the lack of water quickly disappeared when the cleansing waves briskly massaged her back as well as any masseuse.

She stayed under the shower jets for twenty minutes, concentrating on the rhythms the sonic waves pulsed against her skin as she temporarily forgot her cares. Eventually, though, the massage evolved into a pounding, and she quickly stepped out of the shower clean, refreshed and completely dry.

"It's quite intense at the end, isn't it?"

Spinning around, she faced the stranger in a defensive half-crouch. Naked, she cared little for modesty, but she silently cursed her lack of weapons. If she lived to correct it, such a mistake would not occur again.

The woman standing near the massive dressing mirror had beautiful cocoa skin to match her deep chocolate eyes. Her dark curly hair sat just below her shoulders, a much more manageable length than Emma's own. Her burgundy velvet dress looked as if it had come from the nineteenth century rather than the thirty-first, and she held a similar garment in her hands. The startled Time Lord slowly relaxed and then held out her hand.

"I'm Emma. And, you must be the owner of these wonderfully ostentatious apartments?"

The stranger shook her hand, a smug smile on her face. "I am. And, they are certainly that. It's refreshing to hear someone speak their mind. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emma. Please call me Liz. I brought you a change of clothes, but I had to guess at their size since that rake in there didn't have the decency to tell me."

"You know Doran?"

"So that's what he's calling himself these days. He was too busy fussing over you to say. Doesn't everyone know Doran? Although he called himself Alexander the last time I met him. Let me tell you, he definitely lived up to the boast of being 'The Great', that naughty man."

She said the last with a throaty laugh and Emma couldn't help but grin in return. Liz was definitely a person she could like. She allowed the vivacious woman to help her into the fitted navy dress. Like the blue jumpsuit she had worn, it was a little snug in the top, in this case making her cleavage all the more noticeable. Nodding in satisfaction, her hostess imperiously told her to sit in front of the large mirror and immediately began to play with her hair.

As her new acquaintance nattered away, Emma slowly made the connection. Starship UK, gilded apartments, formal clothes, Liz—short for Elizabeth. Oh, how could she have been so thick? But, honestly, she hadn't expected a Time Agent's conquests to be quite so prominent. Some measure of embarrassment must have shown on her face, for Liz chuckled as she continued to braid Emma's hair into an intricate pattern.

"Finally worked it out, have you? Don't worry; I meant what I said. It's rather nice to hear an honest opinion for a change."

She thought poignantly of Brax and all his complaints about toadyism on the High Council, even in the midst of the War. "I imagine it must be, Your Majesty."

"None of that now," she replied in a no nonsense tone. "I asked you to call me Liz, remember? I don't get many visitors. The Ogrons guard the entrance to the palace too well."

"Ogrons?" Surely she had heard incorrectly. She hadn't studied human history in centuries, but she knew of no timeline in which Ogrons kept the Queen of England a prisoner in her own palace.

Elizabeth pulled her hair rather tightly. "Bloody bastards. At first, we thought they were our saviors, offering to finish the star drive in the nick of time. Only after we were away did we realize they were our jailors. I had hoped Alex had heard of our plight, but he's here for you, isn't he? Poor boy thought this would be a safe haven, and I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth."

Something in the queen's tone made Emma turn to peer intently into her eyes. The depth of bitterness and sorrow in her dark irises approached the Time Lord's own pain.

"How long have you been imprisoned here, Liz?"

The chatty, outwardly bubbly woman finally allowed some of her despair to show. Her shoulders sagged and she briefly rested her head in her hands.

"Almost four centuries now. They keep me alive with stem cell infusions and organs harvested from my subjects. I am forced to watch each year as they cull those who have grown too old to be of use while I live far beyond my normal lifespan. It is a most cruel and horrible existence, and yet I still cling to the hope that he will come to set things to rights."

Four hundred years? Emma knew she would have gone insane long before. And, Ogrons again—it couldn't be a coincidence. The cursed Daleks had managed to change something significant, but why? They'd already infiltrated the Time Agency; what possible reason could they have to interfere with the first interstellar human migration? Unless they planned to destroy the first Great and Bountiful Human Empire before it even began. But the High Council had already blocked that particular gambit. Surely they couldn't expect to succeed.

Terror gnawed at her stomach. Of course they had every expectation of success. The Daleks had circumvented the time lock when they had repurposed the ancient time corridor on Emerald to take them to Fifty-first century Earth. The few who had managed to arrive before its destruction could easily take over this unprotected reality and then use it to shatter the weakened time lock to combine the Dalek forces into one massive assault. Caught off guard, Gallifrey would fall within hours under the vicious onslaught. And, the General wouldn't have enough time to employ the Moment. Once primed the Doomsday weapon took seven hours to charge. She had to stop them, but how?

"Are you quite alright, Emma? I apologize for frightening you. Alex warned me you'd been ill and needed rest."

Staring critically at her reflection in the oversized mirror, Liz X's questions barely registered. Instead, Emma contemplated the weight of her crushing responsibility. So many times she'd begged to be a soldier rather than a spy. Yet, here at this causal nexus, she would have to be both—a spy as cunning as Irving Braxiatel and a general as ruthless as the Doctor. She'd have to wage war on the Time Agency itself, destroy the Daleks and make certain that the altered timeline melded seamlessly with the old one. And, in the midst of it all, she had to find a way to keep Doran alive. How in Rassilon's name could she manage all that?

She felt a pressure on her left shoulder. Reacting instinctively, she had her would-be attacker pressed against the red papered walls before she understood that Doran had been the one to touch her. Letting him go, she took an abrupt step backwards, her anxiety manifesting itself as anger.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking, you idiot? Don't surprise me like that again! I could have killed you!"

With a half-hearted grin, he ruefully rubbed his right cheek. "No, but I'm going to have a heck of a bruise, Sweetheart. Maybe even a black eye."

His apparent nonchalance only irritated her, especially when she could feel his concern mingled with a pained sympathy and a touch of raw guilt. "This isn't funny, Doran."

"I know," he agreed quietly, all trace of humor gone. "I shouldn't have touched you while you were having a flashback, but I couldn't think of anything else to do. I promise you're safe from him here, Emma. He's never liked this time period."

A flashback? Why would he think she was—oh. No, no, no, no, no. She was not going down this road with him. That perverted little twat had nothing to do with this. That was simply another role she had played, and played well. The blond sadist hadn't done anything to her she hadn't allowed him to do, although she would take pleasure in killing him the next time she saw him.

"I wasn't having a flashback," she announced testily. "I was simply strategizing on how best to defeat the Daleks that came through the time corridor. I have six months to restore the timeline before the potentiality for success approaches temporal absolute zero. After that, the cascading quantum ripples from the changes they've made will simply be too great to alter. The Daleks will use this reality as a battering ram to smash the time lock and overrun Gallifrey. They'll either be victorious and enslave the entire universe or blow a hole so large in the fabric of space-time that Reapers will seem like teddy bears compared to the scavengers the chasm attracts. No one will have to worry about the Time War because no one will have ever been born."

A devilish glint appeared in his eyes. "So, I'm guessing that vacation I had planned for us on the Eye of Orion will have to be put on hold."

"I don't need you, just your Vortex Manipulator. You can stay here with Liz. I'm sure she'd appreciate the company."

Standing with mere inches between them, he sensuously traced her exposed cleavage with the tip of his finger. She had to suppress a shiver.

"Those new blue eyes of yours are too beautiful to go green with jealousy, Emma. I love you, and I'm not letting you face those monsters alone. We'll go together or not at all."

"You could die."

"So could you. Personally, I'd rather do it together."

He would, too. She felt that with absolute certainty. That knowledge both comforted and terrified her. "Since when did you become such a romantic sap?"

"Sweetheart, I blame that all on you."

She couldn't help but match his ensuing grin. Rassilon, but he was confident and cocky and exuded so much damn optimism that he temporarily banished all worries of dying from her mind. Regally, she held out her hand. Without hesitation, he kissed it, his playful smirk softening into a tender smile.

"Together?"

"Together."

Pulling her closer, he tapped a set of coordinates into his Vortex Manipulator. Before she could open her mouth to protest, he'd taken her into the Vortex.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Doran hovered nervously over Emma as she knelt on the cold marble floor of the Time Agency's archives. Grimacing, she clutched her stomach much like virgin time travelers did as they struggled with Vortex sickness. He thought Time Lords would have been made of sterner stuff and jokingly told her so.

"That's not proper time travel," she snapped, and it was only then that he noticed how her fair complexion had tinged green. "That's like going over Perdition Falls in a barrel. How can you stand it?"

"I don't know any better. Guess I've gotten used to it."

Contritely, he helped her stand. When she could firmly support her own weight, he clapped her heartily on the back. "Don't worry; I'm sure you'll do better next time, and the next, and the next, and the next . . . ."

When she glared at him, he gave her a cheeky smile in return, although he did stop teasing her. As her color improved, so did her mood. He watched as her eyes swept the cluttered research cubicle he'd commandeered almost three weeks (relatively) before. Her lips pursed in derision the second she noticed _Myths and Legends of the Milky Way_.

"Is that how you figured out I was a Time Lord? From that insipid book?"

"Actually, I crossed your timeline in the future—purely by accident, I assure you. The book just filled in some of the gaps."

She gave him a look he couldn't decipher before her attention returned to his research. Before he could stop her, she had accessed the old reports detailing his brother's disappearance. She scrolled down the screen so quickly that he assumed she hadn't taken time to do anything more than discover the subject matter, but abruptly, she took his hand and squeezed it.

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

"Hey, none of that. You are doing something. I mean, if we don't get rid of the Daleks, finding Gray's going to be a moot point, isn't it?"

She nodded quietly and then dropped into the metal chair behind the desk. With a few rapid taps of her fingers, she had hacked into the data server. By the pictures visible on the small screen, Doran knew she searched for the history of the Ogrons. That made perfect sense. What he didn't understand was why she seemed so interested in a petty political alliance like the Shadow Proclamation, or why she pitched the data pad onto the desktop in disgust after seeing the entry on Starship UK.

"They've already changed the course of human history. We've less time than I thought."

He checked the readings on his wrist strap, but he could detect no marked temporal deviation. "They can't have done much. Whatever change you're talking about isn't registering with my computer."

Her piercing gaze was one of pity, although he detected the slightest hint of condescension. All it took was one question for him to understand why.

"Doran, which species comprised the majority of the guards on Tuem?"

"Ogrons. Bloody bastards were real . . . ." A blinding headache broke his train of thought. Mouth agape, he fought to encompass two distinct memories in his mind. "But my wrist computer would register a temporal shift of that magnitude."

"No it wouldn't, not if the change came from Tempus Tor itself. The Daleks are using the Time Agency to alter the Web of Time. The data that your Vortex Manipulator uses is already tainted. I'm surprised you can recall any of the old reality, but your exposure to the Vortex probably makes you somewhat immune."

That went against everything he'd ever been taught, but he couldn't argue with her logic. Even though his conversation with Agents One and Two had exposed the corruption within the Agency, he still felt a keen sense of betrayal at her revelation. While he'd never considered himself a hero, he'd always been proud of the fact that he was a man with a purpose. Now, he was forcibly reminded that he had been nothing but a patsy.

She must have understood his inner torment because her pity quickly transformed into sympathy. "I doubt many of the agents realize what they're doing. Even most time sensitive beings have trouble understanding quantum causality."

"Still doesn't make me feel any better. I'm used to manipulating people, not being manipulated."

"Would it make you feel better if I told you the Daleks are currently occupying the top floor of the building? Once they're out of the way, we can reverse what they've done and reset the timeline. Easy."

He grinned at her bravado. Even he knew that resetting the timeline would be far from easy. Nor would the Daleks march meekly out the topmost window to fall conveniently to their deaths.

"Planning on doing all that barefoot, Sweetheart?"

Chuckling, she hiked up her dress to study her feet. "Actually, I'd like a blaster right now more than shoes. I can run in bare feet, but I definitely feel naked without a weapon."

"Lucky for you, I know where we can get both."

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"Do you think black goes with navy?"

"I think those boots are horrendous, but if the shoe fits . . . ."

Making a rude hand gesture, she put on the boots. The World War II era leather combat boots certainly looked atrocious peeking out from underneath her elegant velvet dress, but they must have fit well enough for she didn't take them off. Her eyes flicked longingly to the racks of clothing, but Doran wasn't surprised when she didn't take the time to peruse the Agency wardrobe. She'd made her priorities perfectly clear, and if he didn't get her to the armory soon, she would most likely steal his sonic blaster right out of its holster.

So far, they'd been lucky. It was the middle of the night on Tempus Tor, which meant that most of the clerical and low-level administrative staff had gone home for the night. While there were always agents wandering about, they were more likely to be found in debriefing at this particular time than in the wardrobe dressing for a mission. One of the perks of time travel meant that you rarely had to hurry to depart; and a majority of the agents slept well past noon.

Their luck ran out as soon as they walked into the armory. Agents Ninety-Nine and Seventy-Seven were bent over the registration desk snorting a green powder that looked suspiciously like Excess. The Avuhu clones spun around to face them with abnormally fast reflexes. The sheen of shimmering yellow sweat on their purple brows and the too-wide grins only confirmed his suspicions. Doran instinctively stepped in front of Emma as he enthusiastically greeted the dangerous idiots.

"Hey! Where is everybody? Or did Ninety-Six move the party without telling me?"

"Haven't seen him. Doesn't matter. What you brought will do nicely enough."

Ninety-nine answered so rapidly that his fellow agent had difficulty understanding his speech if not his meaning. The memory of what Ninety-Six had done to Emma on Tuem briefly clouded his mind. He clutched his sonic blaster as he fought the impulse to shoot the clones. Under the influence of the drug, their reflexes might be quick enough to dodge the shot.

Emma abruptly clamped her hands onto his shoulders, effectively taking the option of shooting them away. Pushing him to the side, she walked right up to the two, who stared at her exposed skin like she was a roast on a buffet. Seventy-seven eagerly licked his lips, exposing his sharp teeth. The Time Lord tittered as if she had seen something naughty and just a bit dangerous. Doran hoped she knew what she was doing. The clones were more than a bit dangerous; high on Excess, they could be vicious as well.

"Is this a party?" she asked in a voice so patently naïve that Doran had to stifle a snort.

"It is now," Seventy-seven agreed as his hand suddenly gripped her waist. Ninety-nine mirrored his move, effectively trapping Emma between them. The renegade Time Agent took a half step forward, but stopped when Seventy-Seven pulled out an ancient pistol to point directly at his chest.

"You're not invited. We'll return your toy when we've finished with her. Unless you want One to know you snuck her in in the first place."

Before he could answer, Emma sensuously licked the yellow sweat off her captors' necks. Although the gun stayed pointed at his chest, she had definitively made herself the center of attention.

"Make love, not war."

She giggled vapidly and he worried that she had ingested enough Excess from their sweat to affect her behavior. But the gun hadn't wavered enough for him to dare a rescue. He could only watch in disgust as the two Time Agents trailed their teeth down her neck and onto her exposed cleavage. As they nipped at her rounded flesh, her giggles turned to moans and she brought her hands up to clutch at their chests.

Doran had just decided to hell with the gun when her fingers clamped down on a certain point at each man's clavicle, instantly dropping them unconscious to the floor. The Time Lord stood triumphantly over them both, a derisive sneer on her face.

"Cretins."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before imperiously asking him for some water. It took him a moment to remember he had a small flask in one of his pockets. Dumbly, he handed it to her. She took a swig, swished it around her mouth and then promptly spit it out.

"I hate that drug. It tastes like fermented yak's milk, and the sweat didn't improve it."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she marched past rows of knives, darts, bows, arrows, swords and lances towards the special weapons containment facility. As she studied the biometric locks, he searched his pockets for his Agency issued first-aid kit. The closest thing he could find was a cocktail napkin he'd used to write down someone's contact information during his last trip to Barcelona. Funny, he couldn't recall whom he'd been chatting up at the time.

Emma suddenly grabbed his left hand and pressed it onto the sensor pad. The sophisticated lock duly noted his body temperature, pulse rate and DNA before sliding open the sleek metal door. He allowed her to yank him inside the storage facility before pressing the napkin against the scratches and oozing cuts on her chest. She tore it away with a scowl on her face.

"Don't mother me. I don't need it and we don't have the time. I told you. I'm not Melina. If you've got a problem with that, you can teleport out of here right now."

His temper flared, but he managed a strained smile. She was right; they didn't have time to argue. As soon as they completed the mission, though, he planned to have a long talk with her. She might be used to operating alone, but she needed to understand the advantages of having a partner or she could get them both killed. Calmly, he picked up the napkin, showing her the bright yellow stains that mingled with her dark red blood.

"I'm going to ignore that since you're high on Excess. Now, let me show you the Agency's most dangerous toys."

Taking the lead, he walked decisively down a dark corridor which lit up as they passed the motion sensors. Doran stared fixedly ahead not daring to see if she followed. By the time they reached the end of the corridor, she walked beside him, her hand occasionally brushing against his.

This time, he had to subject himself to an iris scan before the door would open. Once inside, it slid quietly shut behind them, effectively locking them inside. It would take another DNA check before they would be allowed to leave.

Watching her from the corner of his eye, he pretended to stare at the munitions. Emma had stiffened when the door had closed behind her, but that was the only visible sign of nerves she had so far displayed. Trailing her fingers along some of the handheld weapons, he saw her face flicker with brief, wistful smiles as she touched an old glitter gun, a tiny but powerful staser, an anti-plastic projectile and a hand-held Silurian particle suppressor.

"Good times?"

"Easier foes," she tersely admitted before returning her attention to the shelves. Soon, though, she let out a cry of delight.

"Yes! Doran, look! It's a tri-protonic disrupter! I haven't seen one of these in years."

Her sudden enthusiasm was infectious, especially when she kissed him soundly on the lips. While he had never heard of a tri-protonic disrupter, let alone understood what it did, he trusted that it would be lethal to Daleks. Careful of her scratches, he hugged her tightly to his chest.

"That's great, Sweetheart! Now all we have to do is get to the top floor."

"Yeah."

Her enthusiasm vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Leaning against him, she ran her fingers through his hair to pull him down for a fierce, demanding kiss. Gently pushing away from him, she gazed at him tenderly with sober eyes.

"I'm sorry. I do love you, Doran."

"I wasn't trying to mother you, you know. You're my partner. I was just trying to help. Together, remember, Sweetheart?"

"That's why I'm so sorry." She touched the neural inhibitor to his neck before he could react. The stunner dropped him to the ground as he temporarily lost control of his limbs. As he lay there immobile, she took his Vortex Manipulator from his wrist and strapped it to hers. Only then did he realize he lacked the muscle coordination to tell her how stupid she was acting.

"I am sorry. And, I do love you. But, I can't risk it, Doran. I won't let the Daleks take away the last good thing I have. You'll be able to move in a few minutes. Grab some extra weapons and stay put. If everything goes well, I'll teleport back here. If not, tell them I had you under mind control. If they know I'm a Time Lord, they'll know it's possible, and it's not something they can test for. You'll be in the clear."

She fiddled with the keypad to his wrist computer for a few minutes. No doubt it took time to override the safety protocols which prevented an agent from using his Vortex Manipulator to teleport to the top floor. His toes had started to tingle when she crouched down to kiss his forehead.

"Please forgive me, Doran. I promise I'll let you help fix the timeline. But I can't expose you to the Daleks. I just can't. Please understand."

If he could have argued, he would have—strenuously. Instead, he could only watch as she activated the teleport and disappeared. As he strained to regain control over his muscles, he had a horrible realization. The conman had been conned by a master, and he didn't like it one bit.


	22. Excess

Author's Notes - This chapter is very action oriented and violent, although if you've read this far, you probably don't need the warning. It also has opposing viewpoints, so some of the action overlaps. Yes, I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger. Don't worry; I'm already working on the next chapter. And, a big thank you to Chimaera198 who gave me the idea of posting Emma's timeline on my profile page. I should have that up soon for anyone confused by the timey-whimeyness of this series. Hope you enjoy!

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Teleporting to the top floor of Tempus Tor, Emma leaned up against the gray wall of the service corridor as she waited for her nausea and dizziness to pass. Bloody Vortex Manipulator—she would never get used to its crude design. As she fought the physical effects of the teleport, she ignored her growing unease. In an all too rational part of her mind, she acknowledged the mission would be easier with two. She harshly squelched that line of thinking before she did something incredibly stupid like returning for Doran.

It took precious time to recover from her disorientation, but her luck held. No guards rushed in to subdue her as she staggered along the empty corridor. By the time she had reached the door to the main hallway, her doubts were long gone. Focused entirely on the mission, she gripped the tri-protonic disrupter and walked into the hub of the temporal control room.

In the space of a second, Emma took in the sophisticated computing systems lining four of the six walls. Four technicians sat at data display desks, intent on tracking the timelines of each of the agents currently in the field. Without hesitation, she shot the technician sitting to her right with the disrupter. The woman fell to the floor, the blood pouring from her nose and ears the only evidence of the destructive force of Emma's weapon of choice. Two more died in the same way, shot before they could raise the alarm. The fourth, however, barreled into her before she could readjust her aim. Together, they crashed to the ground, the disrupter falling from the Time Lord's hands to skid across the floor.

Emma found herself wrestling her dress as much as the enraged man who now brandished a jagged dagger. More than once yards of velvet entangled her legs when she might have jumped to her feet. During one such struggle, she blocked a vicious stab of the knife meant for her face. The jagged metal ripped through skin and muscle in her right forearm, and she hissed in pain as she exercised the mental discipline necessary to temporarily stop the bleeding.

Her wound emboldened her attacker, but his overconfidence proved to be his downfall. As he arrogantly promised to drive the gleaming blade into a more critical area of her anatomy, she took advantage of the momentary respite to grasp his wrist with her left hand. Squeezing with every ounce of force she could muster, she broke his bones with an audible snap. As he dropped the knife, his screams rent the air.

Shoving him off of her, she scrambled towards the disrupter, roughly hiking up her dress so she could finally stand and run. Her opponent was only a few steps behind when she reached the weapon. Ignoring the pain of her injured arm, she picked up the disrupter and fired at her last obstacle. The man dropped to the ground, dying quickly as the weapon broke down his atomic structure from the inside out.

Studying the computing display terminals, Emma determined that five Time Agents were currently on assignment. After memorizing the mission briefing for each, she wrote a crude but effective program to consume chunks of the Agency's data core. Although it wouldn't stop the Daleks' overall plan, those serving them would no longer be able to determine the locations of fixed points. Without that critical knowledge, they would risk the Reapers if they tried to change the timeline again.

With half her task completed, she picked up the discarded knife and slashed at her dress. The velvet came apart with a satisfying rip. When she had finished, she could move her legs freely, although she would earn no marks for fashion. The front of her gown now hit her thighs while the back trailed down to her calves. Taking a strip of the torn fabric, she tightly bound the wound on her arm.

A beep of Doran's wrist computer warned her of the approaching threat. The two humans who sauntered towards the control room, however, did not interest her. After crippling the Time Agency, it was time to kill some Daleks. Going by a hunch, Emma cautiously pressed her fingers against the seamless metal door concealed in the wall opposite the entrance.

It slid open, and she had the uneasy impression of being invited into a trap. Nonetheless, she stepped into the dark corridor. Her senses jangled, and every instinct screamed for her to run. Resolutely, she continued to push forward, using her hearing as much as her keen eyesight to guide her along the path.

The corridor intersected with another, giving her the choice of three routes. She heard faint voices to her left, felt a cold draft on her right, and saw a small red light hovering in the dark some thirty feet in front of her. Ignoring the connecting corridor, she took aim at the red glow and fired. The tri-protonic disrupter wave entered the Dalek in the center of the eyestalk. The repugnant beast inside the deadly metal can screamed in agony, and then uttered a command that had her racing down the corridor where she had heard the voices.

"Casing **im**-paired. Self-**de**-struct **se**-quence **act**-i-**va**-ted."

The explosion knocked her off her feet. Slowly, she picked herself up; blood dripped from a gash over her left eyebrow, and her ears rang from the percussive blast. Lights in the hallway flared red, but she couldn't hear the alarms that were most likely blaring in sync to the warning flashes. Glad for the sturdy boots, she sprinted down the corridor, determined to destroy the remaining Daleks in the chaos her initial attack had wrought.

The passage was unnervingly empty. Surely a few guards should be running about? Hadn't she heard voices? When she reached the suite of executive offices, she finally understood why she hadn't encountered any opposition. Twenty-seven bodies sprawled on the faux marble floor, all dead. The agony evident on their faces gave mute testimony to the method of their demise.

In a way, the Daleks had done her a favor, but their casual use lethal force made her breath hitch. Had Doran's safety been an illusion from the start? She'd left him alone and helpless in the armory. How stupid could she be? She'd never forgive herself if her overprotectiveness led to his death.

A wayward shot from an Ogron sent her running for cover. Crouched behind a desk, she checked her weapon. To her dismay she discovered it held enough charge for only a few more shots. She would have to make them count; daggers weren't much of a threat against Daleks.

Warily, she watched the Daleks' lackey as he approached. Stupid ape didn't even attempt stealth; instead, he picked up the desk she hid behind and threw it out of the way. Perhaps lesser species might be cowed from such a feat of strength, but Emma was no damsel in distress. When he twisted his body to hurl the desk, she barreled into his legs, tackling him to the ground.

The ruthless, dirty fight pitted brute strength against desperate cunning. Though the Time Lord emerged the victor, purple bruises on her neck blossomed where the guard had attempted to crush her windpipe. She lay upon the floor for several minutes, gasping for breath.

Slowly pushing herself upright, she glanced down at the blood-stained bodice of her tattered gown. Most of it belonged to her opponent, although enough of it was hers to make her unsteady on her feet. All too aware that her endurance would soon give out, she searched for the Ogron's abandoned weapon. Though useless against the polycarbide casing of a Dalek, the crude laser made a decent weapon against any entity not sporting such a durable exoskeleton. As she raced towards the unexplored corridor, she fired the laser five times, bringing down five more Ogrons.

A cold breeze blew a few loose strands of her dark hair away from her face as she entered the final hallway. Walking down the dim corridor, the walls began to glow with green phosphorescence while a thick fog enveloped her up to her knees. A discerning sniff assured her the air was not toxic, although the fog swirling at her feet was dense with carbon dioxide.

A strangely familiar presence prickled her senses as she cautiously moved forward. Checking Doran's wrist strap, she discovered that the corridor didn't appear on any of the Time Agency's schematics. Nor did the computer register any signs of life in her general vicinity. Yet, something beckoned her forward, something decidedly not Dalek.

She found herself in a cavernous room filled with artifacts. Understanding dawned; these were the trophies of the Time Agency, the spoils of countless missions to countless planets in countless times. The rune emblazoned sword of Harald Haarfagr leaned against the shield of Gomo the Ox, the legendary conqueror of the Dokar Empire. Fabled weapons, bejeweled crowns, ancient monuments, plundered technology—none of it held her attention like the scratched hourglass which sat on a marble pedestal in the exact center of the room.

The sparkling sand that swirled inside like a perpetual tornado entranced her. Momentarily forgetting her mission, she tossed the Ogron's laser aside to study the brass housing that supported the primitive timepiece. "Impossible," she whispered, but Emma could not deny the reality of the seal of Rassilon embossed on the top of the casing. Somehow, the Time Agency had recovered an artifact from Gallifrey's storied past.

The movement of the sand changed as her hand hovered over the hourglass. Instead of spinning in a swirling vortex, the sand collided upon the glass like a thousand battering rams. The presence she had felt at the edge of her consciousness grew as she brought her fingers closer. She jumped back instinctively in fear only to cautiously inch forward. Many of the objects associated with the great founder of Time Lord society had the potential for inordinate destruction. Perhaps this particular artifact could be the key to the Daleks' defeat.

Impulsively, she touched the hourglass. The presence that had hovered at the edge of her consciousness burst into her mind. "Danger," the decidedly masculine presence screamed. "Trap," it added in an anxious rush.

Automatically, Emma dove behind a large obsidian statue of the Mighty Marmot of Milcon just as the Dalek on her left fired. Shielded from the blast, she took careful aim and killed the metal monster. The all too familiar sound of "Exterminate" immediately to her right, however, revealed the intricacy of the trap. A red Command Dalek emerged from the thick fog, its particle beam pointed directly at her chest.

She remembered well this particular Dalek from her torture under the mind probe. As much as a Dalek could revel in torture, this one did. Cursing her hubris, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for death. No shot came. Incredibly, the Dalek seemed more interested in the hourglass than her.

"You **wil**l hand **o**-ver the **Time** Lord wea-**pon**.

Emma's laugh had a hysterical edge to it, but she laughed nonetheless. As the foreign yet familiar presence gibbered in her mind, she'd quickly realized that the ancient artifact wasn't a weapon at all. It was a prison. Rassilon had trapped the consciousness of one of her ancestors inside a housing of glass and brass, much like a modern Chameleon Arch could temporarily hold her people's consciousness inside a watch.

"I think you've forgotten something. You don't have hands."

The Command Dalek actually shook with anger as she smirked at her own cleverness. She might be about to die, but she wasn't going to cower before the ugly pepper pot. She'd done enough of that under the influence of the mind probe.

"**You** will **give** me **the** wea-**pon**!"

"I will not!"

"Ex-**ter**-min-**ate**! Ex-**te**r-min-**aaaaaa**!"

She fired before her enemy could finish its threat. Hit just as it was about to fire, the Dalek's shot went wide. _"RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN,"_ the presence in her mind screamed even as she sprinted down the glowing hallway. The resulting shockwave from the explosion of the Command Dalek's casing knocked her to the ground. Much more powerful than the first Dalek's self-destruction, it left her battered and dazed. Only the demanding voice inside her head kept her conscious.

"Run! Danger! Run! Escape! Danger! Run!"

Groggily, she pulled herself to her feet, still holding the surprisingly intact hourglass. "Yeah, I . . . know. Danger . . . . Need . . . to . . . run. You try . . . . Harder than looks . . . ." She rambled disjointedly, addressing the inner voice out loud. One thought kept her moving. She needed to get back to the armory. Doran would kill her if she regenerated. Or, he'd never forgive her, which was just as bad.

Leaning against the smooth metal wall as she tried to catch her breath, she finally recalled that there was a much quicker way. She blearily hit the return button on the Vortex Manipulator. The disorientation she experienced from the primitive teleport sent her to her knees. Black spots clouded her vision as she looked up to see Doran pointing his sonic blaster at her.

"_YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES. CLOSE CLOSE CLOSE CLOSE. FREE MEEEE!"_

The abrupt, jubilant rant of the trapped Time Lord eclipsed her lover's apparent betrayal. Hardly understanding what she did, Emma held up the hourglass for Doran to take. With her tunneled vision, she missed the grim set to his jaw as he took the ancient prison out of her hand. As the compelling presence in her mind faded, however, she couldn't mistake the voices behind her.

"Give us the artifact, Agent Sixty-Nine, or the woman dies."

"Hell, Six, looks like you got this one from Planet Barbie. Was she good enough to make you forget your little ginger pet?"

"Fuck you, Nine."

The arrogant tone of Agenty Ninety-Six's voice gave her a surge of adrenalin that temporarily pulled Emma from her haze. Getting slowly to her feet, she glared at the sadistic man who had taken so much pleasure in her pain. He no longer wore the standard Time Agency uniform, but tight breeches, a ridiculously flashy red jacket with gold braiding and a plethora of anachronistic weapons. The outfit vaguely reminded her of a caricature of the formal dress worn on Galbon. Flanking him, were two people she didn't recognize. The balding, pudgy male stared at her curiously, while the emotions of the older, thin blonde were impossible to read.

Before she or Doran could react, Ninety-six pulled her roughly to his side. Weaponless, she unwillingly stood still as he pressed his incredibly sharp sword against her bruised throat. Doran answered by training his sonic blaster on the artifact.

"Touch one hair on her head and I'll disintegrate your little trinket."

"No!"

The warning came in chorus from Emma and the woman standing next to her. The dyed blonde eyed her suspiciously before attempting to put an end to the standoff.

"Think rationally for a moment, Sixty-Nine. We both have something the other wants. I propose an even trade."

"Why should I trust you, One?"

"Why shouldn't you? Two and I have acted honorably. We confirmed the existence of the three Daleks who killed Agent Forty-One. We gave you generous leave and access to the archives to search for your brother. We deposited six months of back pay into your account. We have kept our word."

"By letting the Daleks take over the Time Agency? I don't think so."

Emma noticed the older woman's sniff of annoyance as she glanced at her own wrist strap. "Yes, well, I don't think we have to worry about that anymore if the reports I'm getting are correct." Turning to her captive, her tone conveyed begrudging respect. "I really must congratulate you, my dear. You are an efficient killing machine, rivaling the talents of Ninety-Six. If the Time Agency didn't already have one psychopath in its employ, I would be tempted to offer you a position. As it is, I offer you and your partner a way out."

Ninety-Six painfully squeezed her waist as his sword bit into her shoulder. "He's not her partner! Sixty-Nine is mine and always will be!"

The portly Agent Two irritably batted away Ninety-Six's blade, although the enraged agent's tight hold on Emma's waist did not lessen. A thin rivulet of red ran down her shoulder, adding to the bloodstains on her tattered bodice. Growing embarrassingly faint, the battered Time Lord stared stupidly at the strip of velvet tied around her right arm. Soaked and shiny with her blood, it attested to the fact that her body had been pushed beyond its vast limits. In a matter of minutes, she would be nothing more than a liability. Eyeing the empty space between her and Doran, she calculated the odds of reaching him and teleporting out before getting him killed. Three point six one percent—it looked like he would get his wish. They would die together after all.

Meeting his eyes, she hoped he could see her resolve. She couldn't leave a Time Lord in the hands of the Time Agency, even an incorporeal one who was most likely dangerous and more than a little mad. Far better to grant the prisoner death along with the two of them.

"Shoot it."

Ignoring her outburst, Doran coolly looked towards the pragmatic Agent One. "The hourglass for my Vortex Manipulator."

For the first time, the brittle blonde cracked a smile while Emma struggled to remain conscious. "And, the voluptuous creature attached to it?"

His grin matched hers. "A definite bonus. Besides, it sounds like she did you a favor."

The shrewd woman rechecked her wrist strap before nodding. "Agreed. Our associates forgot their place. We're well rid of them. Give us the hourglass and Ninety-Six will release your partner. You will be free to leave."

"You're kidding, right? I don't want her in pieces. Give her to Two and we'll make the exchange simultaneously."

"A reasonable request. Ninety-Six, give her to Two."

Shoving his captive at his superior, the volatile man took a step towards his former partner, but One pulled him back by his collar like a recalcitrant child. "We'll find you another partner, Ninety-Six. The woman was willing to face three Daleks for that artifact. It must have a significance we've overlooked."

Too lightheaded to follow the rest of the conversation, Emma drew from the last of her strength to remain upright. She hardly understood why Doran gripped her arm; she could only feel his raging fury. Stumbling forward, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her back. Then, the darkness of the Time Vortex swallowed her whole.

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He was going to kill her. Or regenerate her. Or, whatever one did to Time Lords who insisted on being utter idiots—just as soon as he could move his limbs.

Doran had very little to do while his muscles recovered from the effects of the neural agitator except worry. How could one person, even a Time Lord, defeat three Daleks? Did she care about her life at all? His? Damn, but he was going to kill her—just as soon as she came back safely.

When he heard the sound of the armory door sliding open, he knew without a doubt that fate hated him. His psychotic ex-partner stood above him with an amused smirk on his smug face. Ninety-Six wore a jacket gaudy enough to win a fancy dress contest and had strapped two holsters around his hips like some mercenary ready to shoot it out at the O.K. Corral. Fate didn't hate him; it fucking despised him.

"Hell, Six, who'd you piss off this time?"

He couldn't answer, not that he had an answer to give. When the spiky blond withdrew a bag of green powder and inhaled half of the contents, the paralyzed man knew things had gone from bad to worse. Straddling his still immobile body, Ninety-Six spent several minutes grinding himself against Doran's hips, taking the lack of response as a personal challenge.

"Never thought I'd see the day when you couldn't get it up. Here, looks like you need this more than me."

With vicious glee, Doran's ex-partner forcefully shoved the rest of the Excess up his nose. Forced to breathe in the illicit drug, the renegade Time Agent's anger and frustration escalated into a ferocious ball of rage. As his metabolism sped up, the effects of the neural agitator rapidly waned. Incensed, he abruptly threw off his assailant.

"Stay the hell away from me, Nine. I've put up with enough of your shit to last a lifetime."

As Ninety-Six faced the business end of a sonic blaster, the arrogance slid off his face to be replaced by anxious comprehension. "Fuck, I forgot—you're clean. Six months on Tuem without so much as a pinch of the stuff, and three weeks hiding in the archives trying to find Gray. You know how Excess works. Put the blaster down before you do something stupid."

"Like killing you?" he taunted, his finger tensing to do just that. "I'd call that brilliant." Some part of his mind, however, acknowledged that Ninety-Six had a point. It had been well over a year since he'd put anything like Excess into his system. He no longer had the tolerance to discount its effects

"Put the blaster down, Agent."

The door had slid open again, revealing the presence of Agents One and Two. Two had a sheen of perspiration on his forehead that spoke of nerves rather than Excess, while One looked as implacable as ever. If he hadn't been so bloody angry, he might have holstered his weapon in a show of good faith, but, really, he wouldn't mind killing the lot of them.

"Why? So you can take me to your masters? I don't think so."

One studied her fingernails, completely dismissing him as a threat. "No, Agent, so you can leave with your life intact."

Really, it was just too much. Doran had had enough. "Why?" he ranted, waving the sonic blaster in the air. "She fucking left me! She promised we'd go together and now she's left me to my sicko ex-partner's mercy! When is anyone going to see that I don't give a fuck about my fucking life! Just hers!"

Ninety-Six's eyes widened in disbelief as he chortled at the other man's predicament. "You're worked up about some woman who took a neural agitator to your neck? I've always thought of you as a glutton for punishment but this clenches it. Don't tell me she's ginger, too?"

Again pointing the blaster at the blond man's chest, Sixty-Nine's finger hovered over the trigger. He might have pulled it, but in that moment Emma appeared in front of him, blocking the shot. Collapsing to her knees, she held out some metal object for him to take like it was a prized trophy. Dismissing it as irrelevant, he stashed it on a shelf beside him as he scrutinized her for injuries.

Every bruise, every cut on her skin only added to his ire. She shouldn't have gone alone, and now he paid the price. Didn't she know how much it hurt him to see her like that?

"Give us the artifact, Agent Sixty-Nine, or the woman dies."

"Hell, Six, looks like you got this one from Planet Barbie. Was she good enough to make you forget your little ginger pet?"

If Emma hadn't been in the way, he would have disintegrated his ex-lover on the spot. The idiot didn't know what he was talking about. He'd never forget what had that sick bastard had done to her on Tuem. And, he wanted nothing more than to kill the monster who'd hurt her so badly.

"Fuck you, Nine."

She rose slowly to her feet, and a bolt of fear momentarily broke through his drug induced rage. She looked close to collapse. He needed to get her somewhere safe so he could care for her before killing her for getting him so worked up.

But, fate insisted on being a bitch. Before he could react, Ninety-six pulled her roughly to his side. Weaponless, she froze as he pressed his incredibly sharp sword against her swollen, purple throat.

Even under the sway of Excess, Doran knew who held the true power in the room. Forcing himself to tear his eyes off his ex-lover, he addressed the formidable Agent One.

"Touch one hair on her head and I'll disintegrate your little trinket."

"No!"

Emma's shout matched One's. As the premier Time Agent studied the woman he loved, Doran glanced at the hourglass that had caused all the commotion. It was nothing special. And, if he had to trade it for her life, he'd be getting the bargain of the century.

"Think rationally for a moment, Sixty-Nine. We both have something the other wants. I propose an even trade."

"Why should I trust you, One?"

"Why shouldn't you? Two and I have acted honorably. We confirmed the existence of the Daleks who killed Agent Forty-One. We gave you generous leave and access to the archives to search for your brother. We deposited six months of back pay into your account. We have kept our word."

"By letting the Daleks take over the Time Agency? I don't think so."

He watched warily as One studied the information on her wrist strap. Whatever she saw there momentarily displeased her, but she quickly schooled her expression of annoyance. He'd always suspected she was the more pragmatic of the pair. Now, if she could just be reasonable.

"Yes, well, I don't think we have to worry about that anymore if the reports I'm getting are correct." Turning to Emma, her tone conveyed begrudging respect, and Doran began to think they might just leave the Agency with their lives intact.

"I really must congratulate you, my dear. You are an efficient killing machine, rivaling the talents of Ninety-Six. If the Time Agency didn't already have one psychopath in its employ, I would be tempted to offer you a position. As it is, I offer you and your partner a way out."

Then, Ninety-Six had to remind him that he was a possessive fiend who didn't have a shred of sense. Furious, he watched Two bat the sword away from Emma's bleeding shoulder. The desire to protect her conflicted with his uncontrollable rage, and for the first time, he looked her directly in the eye. The bleak resignation he saw there simply added to his wrath. She didn't care about her life at all.

"Shoot it."

It was easy to ignore her demand and her. He wasn't about to destroy some worthless trinket just so she could commit suicide. Instead, he addressed One. "The hourglass for my Vortex Manipulator."

For the first time, the brittle blonde cracked a smile. "And, the voluptuous creature attached to it?"

His grin matched hers, although his rage was such that he would have killed them all if Emma hadn't been in the way. "A definite bonus. Besides, it sounds like she did you a favor."

One rechecked her wrist strap. By the look on her face, Doran guessed that the Time Lord had managed to kill the three Daleks. Why then, was she willing to throw her life away for some useless bauble?

"Agreed. Our associates forgot their place. We're well rid of them. Give us the hourglass and Ninety-Six will release your partner. You will be free to leave."

"You're kidding, right? I don't want her in pieces. Give her to Two and we'll make the exchange simultaneously."

He might be high on Excess, but he wasn't a fool. Ninety-Six would likely kill her out of spite. After a moment, One agreed, ordering Two to take hold of Emma. Holding the hourglass, he waited for the portly agent to approach. Tersely, they exchanged prizes. Emma suddenly stiffened in his grip and his anger at her surged. How dare she try to reject the freedom he offered? Before she could break his hold, he yanked at the Vortex Manipulator strapped to her left arm and took them into the Vortex.

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Coming raggedly to her senses, Emma found herself pressed painfully against a stone wall. Doran gripped her shoulders, his face twisted with an unnatural rage as he screamed in her ear.

"I thought you were different! But you used me just like everyone else! You're nothing but a whore! I should have known better! Should have known that no one would be so stupid as to love me! Happy now, sweetheart?"

With each rant, he pounded her roughly against the stucco encrusted limestone. His skin glistened yellow, but her pain-fogged brain was simply too addled to understand the significance. All she comprehended was his broiling anger. Her greatest fear had come to pass: he'd rejected her.

She wanted nothing more than to beg his forgiveness, but the words wouldn't come. Coughing harshly, the only thing that came from her mouth was the spatter of blood. Dimly, she realized that the pain in her back and chest came from a fatal sword thrust made by Ninety-Six as the exchange took place.

Doran paled as her bloody spittle hit him on his cheek. Abruptly, he released her to stagger backwards. As the regenerative energy flowed through her, his abject horror overwhelmed her senses. Exploding into golden light, she wished with all her might that she could turn back the clock and somehow make it right. She couldn't lose him. She simply couldn't.


	23. The Warm Aegean Sea

**Author's Notes** - Hi! Yes, the chapter is shorter than most, but the next one is almost ready to post, so you'll actually be getting two updates this week. Hope that makes up for the shorter length. And, Emma's timeline isn't on my profile page yet because . . . well, I didn't realize just how twisted her timeline actually was, or how many spoilers could be revealed by writing it out. Still working on it, though. Enjoy!

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Watching her new skin settle around her, Emma experienced an exuberance peculiar to regeneration. She could barely recall her own name, but the sure knowledge of her existence filled her with a reckless ecstasy. Giddy, she spun around in circles, her arms flung out wide. In the midst of her whirling, her feet bumped into something solid, and she looked down upon the human she loved.

"Hello, Doran. Isn't it a grand day?"

He didn't answer, and only belatedly did she realize that he sat hunched with his arms wrapped around his head. He was so very sad, and his sorrow leeched away much of her happiness until she was left with nothing more than a puzzled frown on her face. Gently, she pried his arms away to find his skin glistening with yellow sweat.

"Excess, Doran? Why would you take something as silly as that? It obviously doesn't agree with you."

As he choked on a strangled sob, her handsome hero pulled his hands away from hers to cover his head once more. That simply wouldn't do. She could have much more fun with him than without.

"Stop being so silly, Doran. You just need a swim. Can't you smell the sea? I think we're in Greece. I don't think I like Greece, but that's where we are. At least the salt will draw out the Excess. You should know better. Rouchmel will be very cross with you if you don't sober up soon."

He scrunched up into a tighter ball, his grief dousing her playfulness. "Doran? What's wrong? You're making me sad."

He groaned, which was not an acceptable answer in her eyes. She impatiently stamped her foot. "Doran, you are acting like a child! Stop it this instant! You and I are going for a swim and that's final."

Yanking him by the arm, she pulled him upright. Finding him unwilling or unable to follow the simplest commands, she frogmarched him to the nearby shore. He remained passive, allowing her to submerse him, but she soon grew bored by his lack of response.

Once she had immersed herself in the warm salt sea, Emma's contentment quickly returned. Finding what little clothing she wore tattered and much too big, she quickly shimmied out of it, preferring to feel the sunshine against her skin. Her buoyancy contrasted nicely with the constant tug of gravity, and she drifted peacefully until a dark cloud covered the sun. Treading water, she looked lazily about, but she had the tranquil scenery to herself.

Alone—she was all alone. That simple realization sent her hearts into overdrive. She should not be alone. She should be with Doran, except she now recalled very clearly that he had rejected her. He'd called her a whore, accused her of using him rather than loving him. He hadn't even bothered to look at her as she'd pushed him to the water. What had she done? She couldn't be alone. She simply couldn't.

"Doran? Doran! DORAN!"

She swam back to shore as if sharks pursued her. Stumbling on sand and rocks, she raced to land searching for the one person who could give her life meaning.

"Doran!"

He stood away from the gentle surf clothed in a dark red tunic fastened on his right shoulder, a roughhewn length of brown cloth clutched in his hands. His face oddly impassive, he carefully wrapped her wet body in the makeshift towel. Underneath his expression, however, the grief and guilt lingered, which added to her sudden insecurity.

"I thought you'd left me. I was scared. Why are you so sad?"

He smiled, although it was a brittle mask that didn't reach past his mouth. "It's alright, Sweetheart. There's no need to be sad. I'm going to take care of you. I promise."

"I'm not a whore, Doran. It wasn't nice to call me that. I never used you. I love you."

His turbulent emotions sent her reeling. Gravity overcame all else as she sagged limply in his strong arms. Nothing made sense. Her limbs felt heavy. So did her eyelids. Why didn't anything make sense?

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Doran laid the unconscious Time Lord gently onto the sand. Woodenly, he arranged the large brown cloth around her, artfully tying it at the shoulder and around her tiny waist. At least he wouldn't have to carry her into Athens naked. The long shadows warned of their need for shelter, but there had been no time to steal coins, only pilfer from a couple of fishermen who had decided to take an afternoon swim in the warm Aegean Sea.

His own immersion had sobered him like nothing else could. The salt had quickly drawn out the poison of Excess, but it had been far too late for Emma. Not content with beating her to the point of death, his hate filled words had destroyed her newly healed mind. The pain of seeing Melina dance before him once more was bad enough, but the knowledge that she had retreated into that fragile persona tore at his soul. He might have thrown himself off the Parthenon except for the fact that once again she was dependent upon his care.

Carefully, he unstrapped his Vortex Manipulator from her wrist. As he feared, the advanced teleport now functioned as little more than a fashion statement. He couldn't cajole any information out of the blank display, and the technology necessary to fix such a sophisticated device wouldn't be available for thousands of years. They were both screwed.

The wind bit into his exposed skin. Picking her up, he walked towards the agora in the hopes of spending the night sheltered under one of the covered walkways. If she didn't wake soon, he would be forced to leave her to find food. Damn, the Greeks didn't even have tea at this point in time.

After carrying her for almost an hour, he stopped on a hill near the temple of Hephaestus. Cradling her on his lap, he sat on the rocky grass as he assessed the risk of spending the night underneath the portico of the massive structure. A roof would protect them from a potential downpour, but he could make out at least two dozen people with the same idea. In such a group, there would be at least a few cutthroats. One or two, he could handle, but any more would be problematic. Still, what choice did he have?

He ended up spending the night crouched over Emma in a small alcove outside of the nearby craftsman's hall. After observing the crowd at the temple, he had elected to try his luck somewhere more defensible. Eyes burning from lack of sleep, Doran watched as the potters and metalworkers entered the hall with the rising of the sun. Chilled and exhausted, he fought despair.

"Doran?"

Relief buckled his knees, and he ended up sprawled on top of Emma. Scrambling upright, he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "How do you feel, Sweetheart?"

"Do you still hate me?"

Her forlorn query brought a sharp pain to his chest. Forcing himself to breathe, he sat beside her. "I never have."

"You were so angry. I thought I'd lost you. I'm sorry."

He'd killed her, yet she was the one apologizing. How could he tell the confused child in front of him that he'd killed her? Would she even understand? Wearily, he closed his eyes only to pop them open in shock as she jumped to her feet.

"No! It can't be!"

Her antics would have been comical had she not been so obviously dismayed. For a moment, she stared at her hands. Then, she clutched at her throat while reciting a nonsensical rhyme. Finally, she traced her nose with her fingers before leaning heavily against the smooth wall.

"Doran?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I'm not her. I think . . . I think I wanted to be her, for a while. But, I can't. I can't go back to being that simple, innocent girl. She's not me."

Hardly daring to believe, he stood to peer into her eyes. He'd looked into those same expressive hazel orbs for nearly a year. Seeing them again brought back poignant memories, both good and bad. Yet, as she stared back, there was a weight to her gaze that had never been present on Galbon. Instead, he saw the guilt, the weariness, the self-recrimination that had been present in Emma when she had brokenly confessed her terrible role in the ongoing Time War.

Relief, pure unadulterated relief—he had not broken her spirit. And, then the remembrance of how he had stolen her life obliterated his fragile peace.

"Emma. Oh, God, how can you look at me? I killed you."

"You . . . ?" She put her hand to his forehead, as if checking for a fever. He didn't understand how she could bear to touch him. Before he could pull away, she stroked his cheek. Silent tears streamed down her face, although he couldn't understand the reason. After a moment, she dropped her hand, her head bowed in shame.

"Doran, you didn't. Everything that happened was my fault, not yours. I broke the promise I made to you. I left you, left you helpless and alone because I couldn't bear the thought of you dying because of me. I was so stupid and selfish, and I almost lost you anyway. He could have killed you, Doran. I'm glad it was me he killed instead. I just . . . ."

Her voice cracked but she raggedly carried on. "Please, Doran. Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I love you. I would never use you. Even in prison, I couldn't bear to see you hurt. Because of me, Doran. Don't you understand? You've already been hurt because of me. And, I couldn't let the Daleks . . . they've taken everything thing I have. Everything. Please don't—"

He bent down to press his lips against hers because he couldn't stand to hear her beg, couldn't endure her suffering, not when he'd said those horrible, hateful things, not when he'd been so blinded by rage that he'd repeatedly shoved her against a wall. He might not have been responsible for her death, but he'd caused her enough pain, and the Excess was no excuse. Letting go of his lingering anger, he freely saw the situation from her point of view.

Easily pushing his fingers past the rough material of her makeshift dress, Doran lightly brushed his fingers across her taut nipples. He groaned into her mouth as he recalled the heady times on Galbon when they had been similarly entwined, awash in emotion and need, aware of nothing except each other.

She encouraged his touch, and soon they lay together on soft, red grass. Birdsong and the distant roar of a waterfall became the backdrop to their lovemaking, though such details barely registered. He saw nothing but her eyes, felt nothing but her eager body, breathed nothing but the scent of her skin. So achingly familiar, yet new all the same.

As her head rested contentedly on his chest, he lazily stroked the curve of her waist. He smiled as he considered just how many chances he'd been granted to cherish the amazing woman resting beside him. Four? Five? More? He sobered quickly, though, when he considered how many he'd wasted.

"Never wasted, Doran."

With a tender kiss to her forehead, he asked, "How do you do that?" Sitting up, he noticed the scenery for the first time. "And, why does Athens all of a sudden look like Gallifrey?"

Without warning, his legs backed against a wooden bench underneath a pavilion of exquisite stained glass. As she pushed him down, he fell onto the seat, landing with a grunt. Looking up, he noticed that Emma had abruptly changed into a beautiful green dress more in keeping with the medieval Europe than classical Greece while he now wore his formal Galbonian attire. Only then did he understand.

"We're in your mind, aren't we?"

Her impish smirk confirmed his theory, although it was quickly replaced by a thoughtful frown. "You've been to Gallifrey. Don't try to deny it."

Uncomfortable with the knowledge that he'd retconned her, he lost himself in the past. Before he could frame an answer, he suddenly found himself grounded painfully in reality as her fists beat against his bare arms. Immediately letting go, the former Time Agent suffered a moment of disorientation when he realized that they stood in the alcove of the Athenian craftsman's hall once more.

"You drugged me! You told me you loved me and then you made me forget! Don't try to deny it. I saw it in your memories. How could you, Doran? I needed you!"

Though the accusation hurt, he made an effort to remain calm. What she'd said was true enough, at least from her point of view. "We both know it was too early, sweetheart. If there had been any other way, don't you think I'd have tried it? I hated seeing how lonely you were. I hated that you'd shut yourself up in that house and pushed everyone away. I wanted to—"

Before he could finish his sentence, one of the metalworkers approached and began to jabber angrily in a language Doran guessed must be Greek. Emma colored slightly and then haughtily told him off, at least that's what he supposed when the muscular man with the calloused hands retreated with a sulky snarl.

She watched the man disappear into the hall before she tugged at his hand. "Let's go to the beach. I'd forgotten how unenlightened the Greeks could be about women."

She didn't explain and he didn't ask. She wandered a while, finally stopping on a warm stretch of sand sheltered by a rocky cove. Satisfied that they were alone, she sat down in the shade against a rocky outcrop and gestured him to follow.

As soon as he sat, she scooted next to him and he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her waist. When she didn't pull away, he decided he'd been forgiven, at least for the retcon. For someone who'd spent the better part of a day sleeping, she seemed as tired as he. Closing his eyes, he wished the rock made a better pillow.

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Carefully unstrapping Doran's wrist strap, Emma gently laid him on the sand. He fussed a bit in his sleep, but he soon returned to his deep slumber. Humans needed a ridiculous amount of rest, but she didn't begrudge him his, not when he'd most likely stayed awake the night before guarding her against potential threats.

On first glance, the Vortex Manipulator appeared beyond repair, but she soon determined that their hasty tandem jump had merely caused a data overload in the advanced circuitry. Prying open the back with her fingernails, she eventually managed to initiate a restart of the processors. Such a task should have taken minutes, but she'd been forced to fashion a few tools from the surrounding environment, no mean feat while stuck on such a primitive planet in such a primitive time.

As the complex computer went through its reboot, Doran slumbered on. Sitting beside, him, Emma absently played with his hair. The emotionally scarred human loved her. That much had been obvious from his transparent thoughts—so had his remorse. She'd picked through his anxieties after he had apologized for killing her. When she'd discovered exactly what that devil Ninety-Six had done to him, she'd battled her own demons. How could she have been so stupid? She'd left him defenseless; he'd be well within his rights never to speak to her again. Yet, he had been grateful—grateful!—to have another chance to be with her. He had it all wrong. She was the one who didn't deserve him.

And what had she done to show her own gratitude? She'd accused him of abandoning her all those years ago on Gallifrey. Of course it had been too early. As a Time Lord, she understood that, but as a woman she lamented the wasted years.

Her growling stomach pulled her away from further introspection, and she spent another forty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds planning their next teleport. She then spent the next four hours fifteen minutes ignoring her empty stomach as she searched in vain for a freshwater spring within shouting distance of the outcrop where Doran lay. Finally admitting defeat in the early afternoon, she gently shook him awake.

Instantly alert, he sat up to scan the area before gingerly touching her cheek. Wincing, she realized that her fair skin had burned in the blazing sun. He then rubbed her finger over her lips, which were rough and cracked.

Sensing his anguish, she immediately took his hand to caress his palm. "It's alright, Doran. It's just a sunburn. I'll be fine." Then, knowing he was about to protest, she held up his Vortex Manipulator. "See? Fine."

"Sweetheart, you're a genius!"

Her eyes lit up at his sudden enthusiasm. "I never said I wasn't."


	24. Starship UK

Author's Notes - Emma and Doran begin to fix the timeline, but learn that change may not always be for the better. Thanks so much for reading. Feedback is always appreciated!

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Picking at her chips, Emma did her best to remain blissfully ignorant of the pervasive despair all around her, but gave up when Doran pushed his plate of curry away in disgust. She gave him a pat on his arm before encouraging him to drink the rest of his water.

At least they had managed to steal some clothes more in keeping with the time period, but the cheerless, dingy overalls that covered their gray jumpsuits made her yearn for the blue of the Time Agency.

"Tell me again why we can't just kill the Ogrons after they build the engines for Starship U.K.? The Pan-Asia Alliance's already left, and Scotland just voted to go their own way. You've seen the state of the UK's engines. They won't be able to obtain orbit before the solar flares and everyone here knows it."

"Because," she answered patiently as she took a deep quaff of her own water. "The Ogrons don't belong in this time period at all. Their interference has to be erased completely from the timeline, and having Liz and her people benefit from their stolen technology negates that."

"Yes, but without it, millions will die."

"I don't think so. I distinctly remember the Great Human Repatriation of 3747. It included the populace of the UK, not just Scotland."

Doran looked furtively around the drab cafeteria, but the other engineers and technicians assigned to the over budget, critically delayed venture weren't paying any attention to the two new employees. "But, we could fix it, couldn't we? I mean, we're not Ogrons, and it's not like anyone here is going to question the answer to their thermodynamics problem falling into their laps."

She smashed a chip into her plate, smearing potato over the bloody remnants of her steak. "We're not supposed to be here, either. This is a fixed point, Doran. So long as we kill the Ogrons tomorrow like we've planned, whatever happened in the original timeline will happen again. Starship UK will fly." After a moment, she added morosely, "Believe me, I'd help if I could."

He put his hand on her thigh. Startled, she looked up to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were warm with compassion. "You are, remember? The timeline has to be fixed before the Daleks realize how weak the time lock has become. I didn't mean to accuse of you of not caring, Emma. If you say Starship UK will fly, I believe you."

If they hadn't been sitting in a crowded cafeteria, the Time Lord would have wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her mind for some very appreciative mental sex. Unfortunately, in the week she had been teaching her partner how to use his psychic abilities for such pleasurable pursuits, Doran hadn't quite learned how to separate his physical responses from his mental ones. He usually ended up unconscious on the floor when the mental stimulation overwhelmed him. Other times—she blushed thinking of the instances when his physical response had mirrored his mental one. At least the gray jumpsuit could be easily cleaned.

Instead, she kissed him on the cheek before disposing of her tray of half-eaten food. The wasted meal twisted in her stomach, adding to her guilt. She knew of the food riots taking place in the cities. The people had lost faith and begun to hoard. Stupid apes, squirreling away supplies wasted time and resources. If they weren't able to leave before the solar storms hit, the radiation would most definitely kill them.

They spent the rest of their shift working on the latest chemical equation for the proposed synthetic molecular motor, but both knew the lead engineer had chosen the wrong set of molecules for the helix inversion. Midway through her calculations, Emma grew frustrated enough to suggest the correct equation, but the manager snidely suggested that junior research assistants should keep quiet and know their place. If she hadn't needed to maintain her cover in order to assassinate the Ogrons, she would have punched the smug woman in the nose.

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Doran kept his hand on Emma's back, partly in warning, mostly in support. Going against her own advice, she had handed the engineers the correct equation on a proverbial silver platter. But, the mean-spirited cow with the doctorates in Nanotechnology, Chemistry and Organic Physics had dismissed her assistance with a catty comment about age and inexperience. If the Ogrons hadn't been scheduled to tour the facility in the morning, he would have given the arrogant woman a piece of his mind.

But, the Ogrons would be arriving at precisely nine the next day, and if all went well, would be dead by ten. Their deaths would conveniently be blamed upon one of the more radical "truther" groups that had sprung up in London in the last year. How anyone with a modicum of sense could deny the reality of the impending solar storms mystified Jack, although they made for convenient scapegoats.

When their shift ended, Emma walked to their tiny flat in silence, her shoulders stiffened in anger, her strides as long and quick as she could make them. Taller than she, he had no trouble matching her pace, but he maintained his distance to give her some needed time alone. Once inside, her anger didn't dissipate; she maintained a stony silence until she began to cook dinner. As she banged a large pot onto the stovetop with more force than necessary, she finally erupted.

"I can't believe I was so stupid. I should be thanking fate that the bitch was too idiotic to see what was right in front of her face. I know better. I can't interfere. The timeline's too fragile. It needs to be nudged in the right direction, not stretched to the point of snapping into a parallel universe."

He gently took the box of dinner rations out of her hands before she crushed it. Pulling her close, he massaged the tension out of her neck and then worked on her shoulders. Eventually, she relaxed enough to rest her head against his chest.

"You're right. Miriam's a bitch. But, you're not stupid. You were just trying to help, sweetheart."

Her face pressed against the fabric of his jumpsuit, her voice sounded tiny, much more like the insecure voice of Melina than Emma's usual confidence.

"They can't possibly be ready in six months, Doran—not when they're intent on using the wrong equations. And, I can't see a future where they succeed. Those engines will never get off the ground. How do they escape if the engines never work?

"I don't know, but I trust you when you say they do. You just have to trust yourself."

It seemed the right thing to say. He would never understand how a woman so vastly more advanced than he could take comfort in his reassurances, but she did. She even smiled, although it only highlighted her fatigue. She hadn't slept in five days; Time Lord or not, that couldn't be good for her.

"Why don't you get some sleep while I finish dinner? I think I can reconstitute the dehydrated stew on my own."

Her eyes briefly lit with a playful sparkle. "Are you trying to tell me you can boil water?"

"It sounds much sexier my way."

To hell with dinner. Deftly, he unzipped her jumpsuit, catching her off guard. He had missed those breasts (not that the larger ones she had sported a week ago hadn't been nice). And, while he appreciated the new experience of loving—and fucking—her with his mind, there was just something about a tactile encounter that couldn't be duplicated.

He had to stifle a smirk as she gasped when his tongue found that strangely erogenous spot behind her left ear. Her personality might be different, but the body was the same one he had explored for nearly a year. He tugged and sucked and nipped in all the right places until her knees buckled. Then, he dragged her to bed. The sheet tangled beneath them, he unashamedly exploited his familiarity until . . . .

"Doran, please. I need—"

He drove into her, knowing exactly what she needed. With only one thought in mind, he pushed her to the edge and over it only to return her to that sweet precipice as their bodies moved in frantic harmony. Thought fled, replaced with instinctive need and a savage desire to please her. When she finally shattered, he quickly followed, overcome by her unreserved release.

His tight grip transformed into a tender caress as he carefully rearranged himself around her. Nestled to his side, her face temporarily free of worry, Emma looked much closer to her apparent age. She made a few token protests about needing to prepare for the morning, but didn't move as he continued his gentle massage. Languidly, his fingers gradually strayed from her back to her waist, from her waist to her thighs. They made love again, slower and more deliberate but no less wanton.

Surrounded by the warmth of her body and the heady scent of her skin, he watched with unmitigated devotion as Emma's expressive green eyes finally shut of their own accord. He listened to the sound of her deep, even breathing for almost an hour before he allowed himself the same. Happily exhausted, he slept without dreaming, although a hint of satisfaction curved his lips into the smallest of smiles.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Emma woke at exactly five o'clock in the morning feeling more relaxed than she had since regenerating. Fondly, she turned to wake the man who had put her in such a good mood. He woke with an insufferably conceited grin on his face, which she would have mocked had his eyes not danced with unalloyed happiness.

"Enjoy your nap, sweetheart?"

Resisting the urge to spoil his contentment, she graciously allowed Doran his victory. "If that's how you plan to force me to rest in the future, I suppose I can't complain."

He took advantage of his size to pin her to the bed, kissing her ardently and then wickedly tickling her most sensitive spots until she laughed in spite of herself. Grinning, he then graciously offered her the shower, knowing the water ran cold by the second one no matter how quick the first.

Deciding he could do with a little cold water, she readily agreed. Thirty minutes later, she finished dressing by plaiting her long tresses into a single tight braid. Entering their living area, she smelled the delightful scent of cinnamon mixed with sugar. Somehow, Doran had managed to scrape enough money together to pay the outrageous prices for the hot, fresh cinnamon buns sold at the local bakery.

"I took an advance on my salary." He answered her unspoken question with a sheepish shrug. "It's not like I'm going to have to pay it back."

The allusion to their upcoming mission dampened some of her enjoyment, but not as much as it should have. She enthusiastically sat down with Doran at the weathered table in the tiny flat to share his thoughtful gift. He'd bought three and insisted she eat two claiming she needed more sugar than he. While true, it still brought a lump to her throat as she wondered what she had ever done to deserve such devotion. Even her bond mate had eventually run from her, but Doran refused to do the same. Savoring the taste of the delicious pastry, she marveled at the whims of fortune.

While he showered, she didn't bother with the dishes. Regardless of the day's outcome, they wouldn't be returning to their quarters. She checked the charge on his sonic blaster and then checked to make sure she'd properly loaded the antique semi-automatic pistol she'd stolen from the Imperial War Museum. She hoped she wouldn't be forced to use such a loud weapon, but it had been the best they could steal on such short notice.

Fingering his sonic blaster, she grew pensive, regretting her actions at Time Agency Headquarters once more. Reliving that horrible moment when she teleported between Doran and that scum Ninety-Six, she didn't notice her lover's approach until he had placed his arm on her shoulder.

"Together this time, Emma. I promise I won't be a burden."

"It was never that," she softly assured before turning around to wrap her arms tightly around his waist. "I won't leave you again. I promise."

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he refused to let her wallow in self-recrimination. Instead, he pulled her to his lap as he sat down to methodically study the Ogrons' itinerary. Then, he wadded up the incriminating piece of paper and threw it into the sink.

"We should go."

"Yeah."

They said nothing as they took the ancient Underground to work. Their fellow passengers were equally mute, too wrapped up in their own troubles to notice the slight bulge of dangerous contraband in Doran and Emma's drab pockets. Most were content to shut themselves off from the world, immersed in escapist virtual realities, but the two operatives weren't naïve enough to believe everyone had such benign pursuits. They stuck together and kept alert.

Donning their overalls as soon as they entered the research facility, Doran and Emma quietly made their way to their separate cubicles. They spent the next hour disproving the validity of their manager's conclusions, and then both found excuses to leave the workroom an hour before the Ogrons' scheduled arrival.

Security was pitifully lax. They both were able to access the roof without being challenged. Hiding themselves on opposite ends of the flat rooftop, they waited patiently for the VIP shuttle to land.

Her braid flew into her face as the jet engines of the small yet powerful commuter shuttle whipped the air around her. Ignoring the stiff breeze, Emma carefully counted Ogrons as they exited the compact vehicle. As soon as she reached eight, she waited for Doran's shot.

The sonic blaster tore the shuttle in two, sending half the Ogrons into nothingness along with the useless metal scraps. Before he could fire again, however, the other four targets had split up. Cursing underneath her breath, Emma fired at the one closest to her, sending her enemy howling to the ground.

Taking cover, the three remaining Ogrons fired in her direction. A piece of concrete shrapnel hit her temple, and the Time Lord's vision blackened. Blinking rapidly, she blearily watched as Doran killed two more. Firing the pistol towards a sudden movement, she managed to hit the last Ogron standing, although the wound only seemed to enrage him. Again, the thug fired towards her, but she had already hunched down behind an air duct.

Before she could scramble out of the way, a hulking figure loomed over her only to have its head disappear. Showered in blood, she jumped at the sound of Doran's frantic shouts.

"I'm okay! Doran, it's alright. I'm okay!" She put every ounce of her will into keeping herself upright. Her legs shook and her vision kept tunneling, but until they were out of danger, she couldn't afford to show weakness.

"How can you say that? You're covered in blood!"

He sprinted towards her, ignoring the alarms that now blared in the distance. With only a few feet separating them, she noticed a blurry shape behind him taking aim. Reacting to the threat, she shoved him out of the way and fired. Emma stumbled towards the still figure. Blinking, she yearned for the image before her to change, but the young driver of the shuttle stared at her with lifeless eyes.

As the world swam in and out of focus, she couldn't pull her gaze away from those dead eyes. Belatedly, she realized that a stun gun lay in the woman's limp hand. She'd killed yet another innocent.

"Emma? I set the charges. Take my hand."

She barely heard, much less comprehended, his urgent directions. The dead woman at her feet stared accusingly with those dark, lifeless eyes. Did she have parents to miss her? Siblings? Husband? Wife? Would anyone ever understand that an innocent had become the latest casualty in a war that threatened to rip the universe apart? She'd become a cold-blooded killer all over again.

"Emma? We have to . . . . Damn it, you're not alright!"

She felt him grab her by the waist—then, nothing.

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Waking up in a sumptuous bed, Emma had the oddest feeling of déjà vu. Fearing the worst, she raced to the ornate bathroom to peer at her reflection. Melina's reassuring image stared back at her, marred only by a bruised gash on her temple. Tentatively, she pressed her fingers to the purple bump. Hissing in pain, she sheepishly winced at her reflection.

Recalling exactly how she had recieved such an injury, she noted with relief that her face and hair were no longer covered in blood. Clean, she wore a loose-fitting shift that reminded her of the prudish nightgowns favored on Galbon, but she couldn't argue against its warmth. Her feet were unbearably cold on the marble tiles and she soon retreated to the carpeted bedroom hoping to find Doran, but Liz's bedroom was disappointingly empty. Deciding her majesty wouldn't mind it if she borrowed a pair of slippers, Emma rummaged around in the large wardrobe until she found some woolen clogs that looked like they'd never been worn. Although a trifle big, she shuffled along in them well enough.

She found the queen and Doran arguing over a glass of water in Her Majesty's private dining room. As soon as they noticed her, however, they both dropped the strange discussion. Liz regarded her with frank appraisal, but Doran's anxiety kept the Time Lord rooted to the spot. Before she could push such potent emotions aside, he stood in front of her, tenderly stroking her cheek.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?"

"Better." Unexpectedly, she told the truth. The poor woman would haunt her dreams, but standing on a Starship UK free of Ogron influence alleviated some of the guilt.

His relief was palpable, but nothing she couldn't handle. In fact, she grinned at his controlled exuberance. He picked her up by the waist with the obvious intent of spinning her around, but self-consciously set her down with a careful kiss to the cheek.

"I thought you'd been shot."

"I . . . ." She didn't know what to say. Did he want her to apologize?

It seemed he didn't when he hugged her tighter and whispered in her ear. "I'm just glad you're alive."

Now, that was easy to answer. "The same goes for you."

"Will you introduce me to your friend, Alex? Or at least let me get her some clothes? She looks like a little girl in that getup." With growing suspicion, Liz added darkly, "Please tell me she's at least the age of consent."

Turning towards their gracious hostess, the Emma's smile froze on her face. Something was horribly wrong. The queen appeared no older than she had on their first meeting, yet the Time Lord sensed that Starship UK had flown through the stars for at least two hundred years. Without the Ogrons harvesting organs from her people and forcing transplants into her body, she should be dead or a doddering idiot long before now.

"I'm older than I look," she managed to say without allowing her revulsion to show. Something was wrong, something on the order of the Ogrons, but no snarl in the Web of Time suggested itself.

Doran shot her a funny look, but didn't object when she graciously accepted the queen's offer to find new clothes. He did, however, invite himself along, which proved to be very distracting as she rifled through the extensive wardrobe.

"That shirt doesn't show any cleavage."

She rolled her eyes as she finished fastening a wide black leather belt around an overly large dark green shirt made of raw silk. At least Liz had given her some black trousers that fit. "That's because I have very little cleavage to show, Doran."

"Cupcake, with the right dress, those assets of yours could be very distracting."

"They could indeed."

When Liz chuckled throatily in agreement, Emma had to wonder if her head injury had somehow affected her time sense. The reigning monarch seemed to be everything she should be: gracious, kind and earthy, her eyes devoid of the heavy despair that had marked their last meeting.

Twirling around, she studied herself in the mirrors. Although modest, her new outfit simply felt right in a way the stifling clothes of Galbon had not. Plus, they were durable and comfortable enough for extended running, right down to the black trainers that felt as if they'd been made for her feet.

"Thank you both, but I have no intention of wearing a dress for a very long time. If you truly don't mind, Liz, I'd like to borrow these for a while, though."

"Please, take them, Emma. The shoes and trousers are too small for me, anyway."

Before she could thank the generous ruler, Liz added pensively, "Although, I wouldn't say no to a favor."

"Anything."

Doran replied for both of them with little thought to the possible request. Emma listened warily, but she couldn't see any harm in walking through the city, and she appreciated Liz's offer to make dinner reservations for them at London's most popular restaurant.

In fact, the next four hours proved to be quite enjoyable, except for the presence of the odd metal men in boxes positioned on every street corner. Sinister and creepy, they cast a pall over the London streets. However, she found them all too easy to ignore with Doran's hand in hers.

Together, they explored the venerable British Museum. Doran explained that the new interstellar wing had once held the famous Elgin marbles. She vowed never to return before 2257 when the vast collection of Greek artifacts had returned to its country of origin. Involuntarily, she shuddered. If the Vortex Manipulator had truly failed after their flight from Tempus Tor, she might have been trapped in a very painful past.

"You okay?"

She squeezed his hand. "Just happy not to be stuck in Greece."

"Me too."

Pulling her into the main gift shop, he asked her to pick out a few of the thirty-second century's version of postcards. Intrigued, she did as he asked, soon entranced by the short virtual experiences of the Earth's stunning natural wonders. When he finally returned for her, she had five in her hand, but he simply smiled and returned them to the rack.

"The queue's too long. Why don't we catch an elevator to the restaurant? Considering who made the reservations, I'm sure the table's available."

He was up to something. His fluctuating emotions told her that much, but she couldn't discover what without asking. In the end, she decided not to ask. He'd tell her eventually—she hoped.

The Orient Express was an homage to dining of a bygone era. The tables evoked the atmosphere of an elegant railroad dining car. The impeccable service was timely without being intrusive. The menu that night harkened back to traditional Turkish cuisine, while the retro travel posters that lined the walls invited diners to imagine Istanbul in the beginning of the twentieth century.

The evening might have been perfect if not for the three glasses of water that had been placed on the floor near their table. Doran had asked that they be taken away, but the manager had apologetically explained that they had been placed there at the request of Her Royal Majesty. Hearing that, Emma did her best to ignore them.

She found it more difficult to ignore Doran's behavior. Unusually quiet, she couldn't accuse him of being withdrawn. In fact, he seemed to be hyperaware of her every movement. As soon as she had finished her wine, he offered to pour more. When she remarked on the tastiness of the fried eggplant, he placed his on her plate. And through it all, he gazed at her with a strange intensity that more than once unnerved her.

Looking down after one such encounter, her eyes fell to the crystal glasses and the water inside. Finally, she saw what she had refused to see before, and shocked, she stared at her partner with an accusatory glare.

"Did you know? Is that why you've been watching me so closely this evening? Were you afraid I wouldn't understand the significance of the water, Doran?"

He was afraid, but clearly confused at her accusation. "The water? What does anything have to do with the water? You mean those glasses?"

"Yes, those glasses," she snapped angrily, her appetite ruined. "Look at them, Doran. Take a good long look, and you tell me what's wrong with them."

Clearly as confused as before, Doran stared at the water glasses. It took him a few minutes longer to understand, but when he did, he looked like he might be sick. Leaning close, he kept his voice low and level. "So, what's powering the ship?"

"That's what we're going to find out."

Investigating the anomaly of a starship flying through space without a working engine soon landed them in trouble. The creepy men in boxes had even creepier cousins, complete with sinister frowns and lethal looking weapons. A group of the silent robots herded Doran and her into a voting room of all places, locking the pair inside.

"I could blast a hole in the door."

As Doran offered to break them out, a computer identified him as a citizen of the United Kingdom named Jack Harkness, age fourteen hundred sixty-eight, marital status, classified. He seemed especially spooked by the uncanny resemblance to the man pictured, and she hurriedly attempted to explain spatial genetic multiplicity before he curtly informed her that he was familiar with the concept.

Before she could take offense, a video began to play which explained exactly how Starship UK had managed to take off without working engines. Bile rose in Emma's throat as she watched the humans shackle such a magnificent creature to their ship. The last of its kind, a solitary survivor of the Battle of the Medusa Cascade, the star whale had roamed the Milky Way singing the song of his people. But now, the stars were dark and silent.

When the damned voting booth gave them the choice to object or forget, she sank to her knees as she followed the great Web through its many permutations. Though morally reprehensible, the choice to enslave the star whale had been just that, a choice. It did nothing to disturb the fabric of the fragile timeline. As a Time Lord, she had sworn not to interfere with the freewill of the lesser species, no matter how much their actions might disgust her. Yet, how could she live with herself if she stood by and did nothing? In the midst of the War, the High Council made similar choices every day. Time Lords were no longer stoic observers, but terrible gods who wielded the power of life and death with the precision of a crude atomic bomb. Why couldn't she use that power to save a life rather than take it?

"Emma? Oh, God, Emma, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I ever brought you here. I thought it would help, and I just made things worse. Again."

Doran held her as she shook, listened as she cried at the unfairness of it all. Then, he told her he would press the button to forget, for both of them. She didn't have the strength to fight him as he recorded his frantic message. Only when the room began to fill with gas did she find the courage to resist. She would hold her breath and remember, and then she would do something about it, Time War and time lock be damned.

The punch to her stomach caught her off guard more than it hurt. Still, she instinctively opened her mouth to suck in a lungful of air. The sedative was too powerful to resist. She glared at her betrayer until she fell into oblivion.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The former Time Agent woke with a start, the tang of a forceful sedative on the back of his tongue. Instantly alert, he assessed his surroundings, finding Emma curled up on the ground beside him, a frown on her face. Intending shake her awake, he stopped, his hand forgotten in midair as he witnessed his anxious warning.

"Listen, you idiot. You fucked up royally again. Get Emma off this moving torture chamber before she's forced to do something noble, 'cause I've got a feeling whatever she does isn't going to be good for this already fucked up timeline."

Emma wept silently in the background, and his recorded self briefly glanced towards her before swallowing thickly. "Okay, here goes. Starship UK doesn't have working engines because they don't need them. They've got their very own star whale hooked up to a nifty little torture device. Basically, they electrocute a sentient being into taking them where they want to go. But, they'd rather forget about this inconvenient truth, which is the reason for all these fucking voting booths. So, you do as I say, and you get her off this fucking ship before she fucking wakes and you have to fucking do this all over again."

Doran didn't hesitate. He punched the coordinates for Sto into his Vortex Manipulator, grabbed Emma and disappeared from the voting booth before she began to stir. Landing in a squalid hotel room on the seedy side of town, the ex-Time Agent had only minutes to devise a plan that would protect her from the ugly truth.

Lying to her would only prolong the inevitable. He couldn't hide his guilty conscience from her mental inquisitiveness, nor could he permanently shut her out of his mind without raising her suspicions. He quickly came to an unpalatable realization. The only possible way to protect her was to erase the knowledge from both their minds. If he halved his emergency supply of retcon, the two doses should be enough to blot the memory from both of them.

Before he could regret his decision, he cradled her head, carefully tipping half the retcon into her mouth. Involuntarily, Emma choked it down, coughing and sputtering but not regaining consciousness. Doran took a few extra minutes to arrange her on the bed. Bolting the door, he sat against it to take his dose. As the past slowly slipped away, he could only hope that one day she would forgive him.


	25. So Much Blood

**Author's Notes** - Oh, look, an update! Here's a quick recap in case you don't have time to reread the last chapter. Doran and Emma discovered the ugly truth about Starship UK. Inside a voting booth, he chooses to forget and then leaves himself a message explaining why he should get Emma off the ship. Jumping to Sto, he retcons them both. This chapter picks up when he wakes in an unfamiliar spot. If you've stayed with it this far, I sincerely hope you enjoy the new chapter.

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Jumping to his feet, Doran's eyes swept the unfamiliar room. How had he come to be in such a sordid place? The last thing he remembered was . . . Emma! She'd been injured when they'd assassinated the Ogrons sent to infiltrate Starship UK. Covered in the blood of her target, it had been easy to miss her head wound. He'd discovered her injury just as he had programmed his Vortex Manipulator to take them . . . not here, wherever here was.

With three quick strides, he stood beside the sagging bed where she lay unconscious. Someone had taken the time to clean her of the blood that had covered her face and hair. On her right temple, a faint scar ran through the middle of a yellowing bruise. She wore new clothes, a green blouse and black trousers with black running shoes. Only then did he realize that he no longer wore the gray jumpsuit marking him as a technician on thirtieth century Earth. Instead, his appearance reflected hers, black trousers, white shirt, black blazer and stylish yet practical black boots.

Automatically, he checked his wrist strap. It didn't take long to grimly calculate that he had lost nearly three standard days of memories. Hoping to discover something, anything, that might spark a recollection, Doran checked his pockets. Reassuringly, he found his sonic blaster tucked inside his blazer. Wherever they were, they weren't likely to be prisoners. Reaching into the pockets of his trousers, he discovered the vial which held his emergency supply of retcon. Empty, the evidence suggested that his confusion upon waking had been self-inflicted. He truly hated when that happened. Usually, it meant in the course of his work he'd stumbled into some sort of paradox too dangerous to remember.

Continuing his search, his fingers encountered something small and round in his right front pocket. Pulling it out, he stared, completely dumbfounded. In his hand he held a delicate band of silver fashioned from three-cornered interlacing knots. Too small to fit on his pinkie, it could only be a woman's ring. Who was he kidding? Not simply a woman's ring—a wedding ring.

What series of events had led him to purchase a wedding ring? And, where had he found such a perfect one? To a time traveler, the ancient Celtic knot represented the past, present and future, beautifully overlapping and interconnected. He could think of nothing more fitting to symbolize the relationship he shared with Emma. But why wasn't it on her finger? Had she rejected his proposal, or had he simply run out of time?

When she began to fret in her sleep a few minutes later, he shoved the ring back into his pocket. He had far more important issues to worry about. Perhaps she could tell him the reason for the retcon. Sitting beside her, he watched as her lips tightened into a frown. Lovingly, he cupped her face, smoothing away her grimace with his thumb.

"Doran?"

A tender smile softened his features as Emma leaned into his hand. His anxiety on the rooftop had manifested itself as anger, but he'd never been happier to see her open her eyes. When she had collapsed, he'd feared he'd lost her again.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?"

"Better." Sitting up on her elbows, she looked curiously around the room. "Another one of your safe houses?"

Well, that answered his question about the retcon. She didn't know anything more than he. Following her gaze, he looked around the dingy room. The peeling green wallpaper revealed orange walls underneath. Years of use had scarred the spongy carpet with a pitted path from the front door to the bed and from the bed to what he hoped was the lavatory. The orange bamboo bedframe had cracked, and deep gouges marked the room's solitary table. He'd seen similar décor on a dozen different worlds, but only one allowed continuous video adverts to be displayed on the ceiling. For whatever reason, he'd taken them to Sto.

"Not sure how safe it is, to tell you the truth. It seems I retconned myself sometime after we got here. I'm missing three days of memories."

Leaning against the wall, she grimaced when she unthinkingly rubbed her temples. "I can't help. I don't remember anything after . . . ." The color leeched from her face. "I killed the driver. She was hardly more than a child, and I killed her."

Though he understood her regret, he worried at its depth. They had both acknowledged the danger of leaving witnesses. For the sake of the timeline, the deaths of the Ogrons had to be classified as a simple hate crime, not some interplanetary conspiracy.

"I know, Sweetheart, and I'm sorry. But, she would have died anyway. It's not your fault. If anything, you should blame the Daleks."

Wrapping her arms around him, she groaned against his chest. "I'm so tired of killing."

"I know. " Instinctively, he rocked with her, just as he had on Galbon. In her own way, he believed Emma to be as broken as Melina. Though susceptible to bouts of depression, at least Melina had been blissfully ignorant of the guilt that had brought such hopelessness to the surface. Until the kidnapping, her life as Rochmel II's daughter had been a relatively happy one even if it had been a lie.

After a few moments, she stiffened and pushed herself away from him. "I'm not her."

"No," he quietly agreed. "But I'm still me."

Incredibly, his explanation satisfied her, though it barely made sense to him. The remorse and self-loathing she carried in her eyes dimmed as if his words had banked a fire. When he looked closely enough, he could still see her pain, but he no longer feared it would consume her.

He thought of the wedding ring hidden in his pocket and grinned unabashedly. Definitely ran out of time. She raised a single eyebrow in query, a ridiculous expression on her youthful face if he'd ever seen one.

"You know I love you."

Emma rewarded him with a lingering kiss. As soon as he thought it might turn into more, she playfully pushed his hands away.

"I'm hungry."

Huskily, he whispered in her ear. "Sweetheart, I've never failed to satisfy."

With exaggerated forbearance, she pushed him away once more. "Just for that, you're stealing me dinner."

"Stealing? Who said anything about stealing? With my charm and good looks, we'll be dining in no time."

She simply rolled her eyes. He couldn't have been happier.

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Lying nude on the surprisingly comfortable sod bed in an unremarkable hotel on a dull farming world of which they hadn't bothered to learn the name, Emma traced her finger along Doran's cheek. The scab where he'd been shot by an ionic laser pistol kept splitting open and would most definitely leave a scar. The former Time Agent had only grinned the last time she had warned him not to scratch it, opening the wound yet again—not that he'd cared. He impishly called his injury a badge of honor, an honor he had earned by pushing her out of the way of a barrage of laser fire.

The Time Lord, however, could not be so blasé. Doran could have easily died, and it would have been her fault. If she hadn't insisted on trying to save the hostages the Ogrons had exploited as sentient shields, he would have never been injured in the first place. They could have obliterated the underground headquarters using a ground penetrating bomb from miles away. The Judoon Central Command had been prepared for the loss of the civilians, but she had begged and cajoled until they had given her permission to attempt a rescue.

The fact that every one of the four hundred six captives had survived their ordeal scarcely assuaged her guilt. Doran's body armor had been hit so many times on the mission that the protective ceramic coating had crazed. Had he been hit again as he had struggled to rise, she would have certainly lost him. Instead, she owed his life to a Judoon lieutenant who had launched a sonic grenade at the advancing Ogrons.

"You're doing it again." Not bothering to open his eyes, Doran took her hand away from his cheek to kiss her fingers. He'd been too tired to do anything other than fall onto the soft grass mattress the night before, but he now radiated a contented, refreshed indolence.

She deliberately mistook his meaning. "It's going to scar if you're not careful."

His eyes snapped open as he put down her hand. "It's going to scar, period. That's not the point. You can't be dwelling on it like this, Emma. I'm alive. You're alive. Hell, even the hostages are alive. I count that as a win in my books."

Stretching, she let out a long breath of air, hoping her naked form would be enough to distract him. He chuckled at her obvious ploy, but willingly gave into it. Languidly, they pleasured each other with mind and body, both thankful for the opportunity to feel rather than think, if only for a little while.

Showering together, they scrubbed the grass stains off each other's skin. Then, they dressed in the outfits they had found themselves wearing on Sto, both finding them comfortable and suitable for running. She quickly plaited her hair in a simple braid in the hope that she could escape their room before Doran asked the inevitable question. Her stomach clenched when he blocked her retreat by leaning casually against the front door.

"So, what's next?"

He asked in such an easy, breezy way without a hint of judgment in his tone. In fact, he smiled as he spoke to impress upon her that he had no qualms about being a foot soldier rather than a general, the brawn to her brains. In the last four months, such unswerving loyalty had uplifted her enough to grin back as she divulged their next mission. Today, however, she could barely meet his gaze.

"Emma?" When she didn't answer, he gently wrapped his arms around her, kissing her on the forehead. "It's alright. Whatever it is, we'll get through it together. I promise."

Why did he have to be so damn understanding? Her voice cracked when she finally answered. She hated herself for the show of weakness. "I don't think I can."

"Yes you can. Whatever the Daleks did, we can fix it."

"It isn't the Daleks," she begrudgingly admitted as she shook with unshed tears. "They didn't . . . . We've reversed everything the Daleks did."

She put a subtle emphasis on the word 'Daleks', hoping he would understand. With a profound sense of relief but absolutely no satisfaction, she watched his smile slowly vanish and the optimistic spark in his deep blue eyes darken. His hold tightened, as if he feared she might break apart in pieces. Perhaps she would.

"You don't have to." He whispered into her ear; the earnestness in his soft tones as alluring as a siren's song. "I will. I'll show him the cellar; bribe someone to blame it on Salow. There was so much blood. Your body never has to be found, Sweetheart. You don't have to do this. He'll listen to me."

Sorely tempted, Emma breathlessly considered his proposal. She could stay on this insignificant little planet and wait for his return. She'd never have to set foot on Galbon or hear Rouchmel's voice again, never have to see his anguish when Doran declared her death, never have to witness the disintegration of the life she had come to love. No, she could stand back and let him do it for her, alone.

In the end, she could live with only one answer. Tremulously, she met his gaze. "Together, Doran. Or not at all."

His eyes searched hers. For once, she had no hint as to his underlying emotions, and unexpected anxiety surged through her. She'd grown so used to his connectedness that its absence frightened her. Clenching her fists, she fought panic, but try as she might, she couldn't control the racing of her hearts or the shortness of her breath.

"Emma?"

She inhaled deeply as his concern and devotion enveloped her once more. Leaning heavily against him, she didn't bother trying to explain. Her reaction hardly made sense to her. How could she describe it to him? When she had recovered some of her equilibrium, she tightened her arms around him in a fierce embrace.

"Sorry."

He returned her hug, albeit more gently. ""You don't have to do this, Emma. I promise I won't judge you, not about Rouchmel. Hell, sending you back into that situation is asking for trouble. I know you love him, Sweetheart. It's okay. I'm a trained Time Agent. I know what to do. It's okay for you to stay here."

She pulled away. Far from being tempted, his offer merely strengthened her determination. "I'm not stupid, Doran. You love him too. Don't you dare leave me behind."

Again, he studied her, as if he could judge the depth of her resolve by her outward appearance. "You're sure about this, Sweetheart?"

"Yes." A warm feeling of pride suffused through her, and she knew that whatever happened, she had made the right decision.

"Okay, then. We're going to need a plan."

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As Emma skipped a rock across the picturesque lake behind their hotel, Doran bit his tongue. He silently counted to fifty, then sixty, then one hundred. Only then could he speak without shouting.

"Having you die is not a plan, Sweetheart. You know Garron. He'd insist on an autopsy. Why can't we just say we stayed on another planet until you were healed?"

She pitched another rock towards the placid lake, but instead of skimming, it sank like the stone it was. "Melina would have begged to be taken home long before that. Besides, the less we have to emphasize the time travel aspect, the better."

"Fine," he huffed as they continued to stroll along the shady path that encircled the wide lake. After her near panic attack the day before, he didn't want her on Galbon at all, much less on Galbon weakened and vulnerable.

"We'll have to return to the biosphere so we can retrieve our clothes."

He stopped walking. He'd never considered that he'd have to wear those bloodstained garments again, but she was right. Had Emma not regenerated, he would have wasted no time returning her to Rouchmel.

"We'll have to think of something else for you, though."

"Why can't I wear my clothes? I doubt you had time to incinerate them."

Shit. He'd forgotten she didn't remember. He didn't want her to remember. When she hadn't asked for the details of her death, he'd been more than happy to remain silent.

"I left your skirt in the cellar where I found you because I'd cut it off. I thought I could stanch the bleeding, but when I saw how bad it was, I knew it was too late. Your shirt and jacket are in the biosphere, but you're going to have to have a strong stomach to wear them. There's sick all over them." He gave her a wan, lopsided smile. "Sorry, Sweetheart."

Bending down, she searched the dirt path for another rock. After a few seconds, she gave up. Once she had dusted the soil from her hands by wiping them on her trousers, she slowly stood to face him. When he saw the determined tilt to her chin, he braced himself for the inevitable question.

"Why couldn't you stop the bleeding?"

He gritted his teeth. Hell, he'd done his best to bury that particular memory, although it plagued his nightmares all too often. "You were hemorrhaging vaginally, Emma. There wasn't anything I could do."

She gripped the trunk of a tall evergreen tree to stare at the sparkling blue water. When she didn't move, didn't speak and no longer seemed to be aware of her surroundings, he cautiously approached. On Starship UK, she'd bristled so much when he'd alluded to what Ninety-Six had done to her that he'd dropped the subject completely. Now, he wished he hadn't.

Moving to stand in front of her, he waited. At first, she gave no indication that she perceived him at all. Then she blinked a few times, as if trying to rid herself of a painful afterimage. When she finally focused on his face, he knew better than to touch her.

"You should have told me. Why didn't you tell me?" She continued acerbically in the next breath, and he decided it had been a rhetorical question.

"It doesn't matter. We can use it to our advantage. No one would dare contradict me when I show up at a Council meeting bloodied and battered to accuse Salow of rape. He'll claim to be framed like last time and flee, and half the army will follow just like before. When the civil war starts, we'll disappear in the confusion. The timeline will mirror the High Council's alteration. As long as the alloy is never sold to the Daleks, they won't notice the changes."

She deliberately looked away to peer at the fern-covered forest behind them. "It's the perfect plan, and one I might not have considered. Fortunate, really, that I had you to tell me."

He couldn't stand it anymore. Reaching out, he patted her shoulder. Her brittle mask of indifference broke with his touch. Wrenching herself away, her face contorted with unchecked fury.

"Don't! I don't need your sympathy, Doran! I'm not a victim! Everything that happened on Tuem was my choice! I let that sick bastard rape and torture me! It was all part of the mission! I could have killed him at any time! I was the one in control, not him! And, if the Daleks hadn't messed with my head, I would have killed my attacker on Galbon! Snapped his neck without a second thought! I'm a killer, Doran! NOT A VICTIM!"

He put his hands out in front of him in supplication as he walked towards her. He'd known she was broken, but he couldn't let her shatter in front of him. "I know you aren't. No one could ever think that of you, Emma. You're a fighter, remember? But that doesn't make you a Cyberman. It's okay to be upset, okay to be angry. Hell, it's okay to be scared. I know I was terrified. Those feelings don't make you any less of a person."

"I'm not upset! There's no reason for me to be! I was the one in control!"

Her screeched protest didn't stop his advance. Inches away from her, he swallowed the hard lump in his throat so he could tell her the truth she needed to hear, the one he hated to say. "You are a fighter, Sweetheart. But you're kidding yourself if you think you were ever in control."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as the brutal truth of her imprisonment finally sank in. Staggering backwards, she hit a tree root and ended up sitting heavily on the ground. He sat down next to her. When she didn't bolt, he carefully put his arm around her shoulder. Not saying a word, she scooted over a little to lean against him. Her ragged breathing betrayed her silent tears, but he didn't say anything for fear she would misconstrue his words of comfort.

As the chirping of birds and clicking of insects slowly filled his ears, Doran stroked the top of Emma's head. He should have realized how much the Time Lord's imprisonment had affected her long before now. He'd thought her insistence that she be called a killer stemmed from her guilt over the countless lives she had taken in the Time War. He hadn't understood how much she had used that label to disassociate herself from the terrible events that had occurred on Tuem. He'd chalked up her recklessness in battle to that same guilt, but now he wondered if she hadn't been trying to prove something to herself all along.

It had been easy, though, to dismiss her behavior as regret until he had witnessed her profound insecurities the day before. He'd shielded his mind out of instinct rather than premeditation while discussing Galbon, but his act had led to a disturbing discovery. The mental connection they'd shared had not disappeared when Emma had regenerated. Instead, she'd been using that connection as an emotional stabilizer, much like Melina had done on Galbon. And, no matter how much Emma protested that she wasn't the same, the young woman was a part of her, a fragile part that had suffered greatly from the memory of Ninety-Six's torture. He should have made that connection from the beginning.

The shadows lengthened. Emma's breathing evened. He watched a few fish jump in the lake. A dark green bird of prey swooped down to kill what looked to be a field mouse. Something that appeared to be a cross between a snake and a centipede crossed the dirt path. An intermittent breeze ruffled his hair.

"I don't like feeling helpless."

"I know."

Heartened that she'd broken the silence, he stole a look. Her face a blotchy mess, she stared into the distance.

"I wanted to die."

He squeezed her arm. "I'm so glad you didn't."

"I'm scared."

He almost said, 'me too' but quickly changed his mind. "Of what?"

"Of becoming like him."

Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. "Sweetheart, you never could."

She gazed at the lake until the glow bugs made their appearance above the now black water.

"I'm scared of being a coward."

Her fear took him by surprise. He'd never associated that word with her, no matter how many times she'd thought herself a coward on Tuem. "How could you be?"

"I don't think I can destroy Rouchmel a second time."

"Maybe you won't have to."

"You think that's possible?"

Standing, he waited for the pins and needles to stop pulsing through his legs before helping her to her feet. In the dim light, the faith shining from her pale green eyes reminded him of the twinkling lights of the glow bugs. He'd do anything not to douse her confidence.

"It has to be."


	26. Galbon

Author's notes - Hi! Thank you so much to **Brownbug** and **Captain Hack Jarkness** for reviewing since my last update. I appreciate the feedback and encouragement very much.

This chapter includes Emma and Doran's return to Galbon, which as usual doesn't go according to plan. I hope everyone reading enjoys the update.

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As Emma snipped a small square of blood-stained fabric from the navy waistcoat Doran had worn the day he'd found her dying on Galbon, she quietly cursed the primitive equipment. The laboratory her lover had "borrowed" from an illicit drug dealer on Victoriana lacked even the most basic diagnostic scanner. The primitive mass spectrometer worked well enough, but they had wasted two days cobbling together a suitable gas chromatograph. However, if an analysis of the dried blood could provide any clues as to how she had been kidnapped from the heavily guarded palace on Galbon, she would consider the two days as time well spent.

After many intense and oftentimes loud debates, she and Doran had come up with a plan of sorts to ensure that the timeline on Galbon adhered to the changes the Time Lord High Council had wrought without actually starting a civil war. Killing the scientist had long ceased to be an option; by the time of her kidnapping, Henred had four factories producing the incredibly strong but lightweight alloy. Nor could she stomach destroying the factories. Each ran on a round the clock schedule, employing a minimum of seventy workers per shift. Poor Doran had looked visibly relieved when she had vetoed his half-hearted suggestion.

In the end, they had agreed on the necessity of taking Rouchmel into their confidence, at least about the threat Davros posed. Only the king had the power to ensure the alloy wouldn't be sold to the Kaleds. He could easily ban the sale of the new metal to foreign governments by classifying it a strategic resource.

Doran didn't particularly like the plan since it depended heavily on her ability to interact with Rouchmel as both Gemma and Melina. She had argued that both were roles she had played quite well and could no doubt play well again. He had contended that he could just as easily speak to the king as a time traveler possessing knowledge of future events. Although moved by his concern, she had pointed out the dangers of reminding anyone of his capabilities, and he had reluctantly acquiesced.

Dropping the sample into a glass tube, she swirled it about so it could mix with the distilled water. After a few minutes, the water turned a vivid red, and she slid the test tube into the machine. As she went through the tedious process of identification, her thoughts strayed to the week prior when she had been forced to confront the truth of her captivity.

Already reeling from the atrocities she'd committed during the Time War, Emma had craved death. No, not merely craved death, she'd convinced herself that she deserved it. At least that was the lie she had chosen to cling to when the so-called scientists had made her a lab experiment, when Ninety-Six had made her feel weak and helpless, when he had . . . . Rassilon, but she was pathetic.

In all the years she'd fought, the Time Lord had never been subjected to such pain, such degradation, such defilement. Ironic, really—a veteran of a horrific war, a provocateur, a killer, a seductress, and she had still been woefully naïve of the depravities one being could suffer at the hands of another. Perhaps one had to experience such things to truly understand, but it was a lesson she wouldn't wish on a Dalek.

Rassilon fuck the Daleks; they had been the worst. Ninety-Six had violated her body while they had gotten inside her head. She shuddered now just to think about it. How could she trust herself ever again? They'd picked apart her brain and left her in mental pieces. Regeneration might have restored her mind, but it could never restore her confidence. If not for Doran, she would have become mired in a tar pit of self-doubt months ago. She called him her second chance, but in reality, he was her lifeline.

Glancing up from her work, she smiled at the human she loved. Doran returned her smile with a dazzling grin before returning his attention to the temporal calculations. She still didn't understand how he could love someone as screwed up as she, but since that day by the lake she'd stopped trying and simply accepted it.

As she studied the results of the blood sample, she recognized the chemical signature of the lomal seed first. From what Doran had told her, she'd been allergic to the edible seed in that body, though she'd never had the opportunity to test it. Lomal had been banned from the palace for many years since Rouchmel shared her allergy.

She identified the only other compound that didn't belong in her blood as . . . . Emma braced her hands against the metal table as the room briefly tilted. Irrationally, the knowledge comforted her.

"It wasn't blunt force trauma."

"Huh?" Doran looked up from his calculations. "What'd you say, Sweetheart?"

She held up the relevant piece of paper in her hand. "I didn't die from blunt force trauma. It was an overdose of boprylia oil."

He picked the paper out of her hand, studied the molecular formula and then handed it back to her with a sheepish grin. "I guess Chemistry's not my strong suit. You mind explaining?"

"I wasn't raped, Doran. I was poisoned. Boprylia's an herb indigenous to Galbon. Refined, the essential oil is a powerful abortifacient, and therefore banned by the government. In small amounts, it's safe, but the amount in my blood would have caused the hemorrhaging you described."

Blanching, his eyes glazed. She staggered backwards against his shock and churning emotions. After a moment, he took a deep, steadying breath and seemed to pull himself together, but she could still feel his desolation from several feet away.

"You were pregnant?"

She stared in complete bemusement. "What? Of course not. I told you, I was poisoned . . . . Wait. You, you wanted me to be pregnant?"

"I . . . ." He ran his fingers through his hair. She absently noted that he needed a haircut, but didn't think it the time to tell him. When he pressed her into the cold metal chair and got down on one knee, she wondered at his odd behavior, but the intensity of his piercing gaze quickly stole all thought.

"I would have been ecstatic, Sweetheart, but I never would have pushed for something like that. After we had that talk, after you'd asked me if I wanted a kid, I started thinking. About how much I loved you, how much I loved the life we had, how much I—."

She couldn't bear to hear more, not when their life had been such a lie. Caustically, she interrupted. "And, then I had to ruin your perfect life by not being the woman you thought I was, not being your little innocent Melina."

He had the audacity to snicker at her pique!

"Maybe I thought that at first, but as soon as we started having sex, I wondered about just how innocent you were, Sweetheart. Hell, you taught me a few things, and that's saying something. Now, are you going to listen? 'Cause I have something kind of important that I want to say."

If he hadn't been so anxious underneath his cocky façade, she would have shoved him to the floor. Instead, she curtly nodded for him to continue. His grin slipped in the face of her irritation.

He took her hand, all trace of smugness gone. Head bent, he began to rub his thumb over the back of her hand. She stared at their joined flesh as his gentle touch mesmerized. Slowly, she became aware of his warm breath against her ear, the hopeful frisson in her chest, the way his physical closeness almost compensated for the mental barrier he had placed between them.

She jerked her eyes to his as soon as she realized what he'd done. The terror simmering in her stomach cooled. For once, she didn't need to feel his emotions. The deep blue of his irises radiated sincerity, tenderness and the absolute certainty of his love.

"Just listen to me for a minute, and then you can get snappy again, okay?"

Nodding, she kept her gaze fixed on his. The slow cadence of his thumb against her skin never faltered.

"Those last weeks on Galbon, I did a lot of thinking. Chalk it up to me being one of the lesser species, but I decided that having a kid with you would be the second best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, you're definitely the best, Sweetheart, but a kid that's half you has got to be pretty amazing, even if I am the father. And then you were gone and I thought I'd lost it all. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. Garron had to sedate me. Did I tell you that?"

He hadn't. They hadn't spoken of the time she'd been missing. She'd been too horrified at her accidental impersonation of the child she had lost, and he obviously had been afraid of upsetting her. She shook her head mutely, her eyes still transfixed by his.

"When I finally stopped feeling sorry for myself, I figured out a way to track you. And, that's where it got complicated. I kept finding you at different points in your life. But every time I found you, Emma, I fell in love with you a little bit more. And when you regenerated instead of dying, I knew I'd been given another chance, a chance I told myself I wouldn't waste."

From the corner of her eye, she watched him pull something out of his pocket with his free hand. The object remained hidden by his closed fist, and she gave it little thought as he brushed his lips against hers before continuing.

"So, would I like to have a kid with you? That pretty much goes without saying at this point. Hell, if I haven't accidently changed our timelines, we'll have two one day. But you've got it all wrong. You couldn't possibly screw up my life because all I want is a life with you. I love you, Sweetheart, no matter if we're fighting a war that might outlast both of us or if I have to share you with a Time Lord with incredibly sexy hair. It doesn't matter so long as I'm with you."

"Doran, I—"

He stopped her with a kiss. "You're supposed to be listening, remember?"

She might have slapped that smug smirk off his face if she hadn't noticed the silver circle of interlaced knots resting in his open palm. When her eyes flew to his in question, his grin had been replaced by a self-conscious blush. She'd never seen him so flustered.

"Doran?"

"I found this in my pocket when I woke up on Sto. I know the concept of marriage is pretty old-fashioned, but, hey, it's the way I was raised. I've been trying to find the right time to ask for months, but a few days ago I realized I didn't need to. The way I figure it, we might not have had a ceremony, but we're married in every way that matters, Emma. So, I guess what I'm asking now is if you'd like to wear this ring, not as a symbol of ownership or anything like that, but as a reminder that I won't ever leave you. That way, even if I'm not close enough for you to sense what I'm feeling, you'll know. What do you think, Sweetheart?"

She didn't know what to think. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as a warm joy bubbled in her chest. She'd never tried to put a label on their relationship, but it had definitely matured since those early days on Galbon. Were they married? By Gallifreyan law, certainly not. But she'd lost respect for Gallifreyan law centuries prior.

Inexplicably mute, she simply held out her right hand. She experienced his joy as he slipped the wedding band onto her finger. As Doran reverently pressed his lips against her fingers, she knew with both hearts that only death could part them. It was a moment she would never forget.

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Doran and Emma flashed into existence inside the Rouchmel's bedchamber. After days of introspection, both had agreed that a private audience would be best. Neither had the stomach to live the lie that had once been their life. They would tell Rouchmel the truth, or as much of it as they could without destroying him.

Supporting Emma as she fought the disorientation of Vortex travel, Doran's eyes swept the darkened room. Empty, the unmade bed suggested Rouchmel had attempted sleep, no matter how briefly. Certain the king would at some point return, he helped his wife into a comfortable chair near the window.

Inhaling deeply, she pressed her nose against the soft leather. "This used to be my favorite chair on Galbon. Sitting here in the morning meant that I had spent the entire night in his bed."

A fortnight ago, her remark might have filled him with self-doubt. But, she wore his ring on her finger, not Rouchmel's. He smiled, content that she had been willing to share such an intimate part of her past.

"He told me how much you lectured him about women's rights. I bet it was from this chair."

"The chair, the bed, the dig sites, the dining table—any time I thought he'd listen, really. I think that's what intrigued him so much, that a woman was willing to speak her mind."

Unexpectedly, he thought of Hanna. The loyal maidservant would have never had the audacity to speak her mind. Yet, she had possessed a quiet strength. Even when Melina had cut her wrists, she hadn't panicked. In fact, he owed the woman Emma's life. Only, someone had killed her before he could repay the debt.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure that was a novelty here."

His dispirited reply must have betrayed his mood because she didn't speak again. Waiting in silence, time ticked slowly, punctuated each passing hour by the chimes softly tolling in the distance. Pacing around the spacious room, Doran grew more anxious with each toll of the bells. Where was Rouchmel?

An hour before sunrise, he couldn't bear the wait any longer. "I'm going to find him. The longer we stay on Galbon, the more likely you'll be discovered."

"I'll go with you."

"Not a chance, Sweetheart. If you're seen we'll be stuck here for months."

"Be careful."

He gave her a quick kiss as he fingered her ring. "Always."

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With only the vaguest suspicions of where the king might be, Doran walked the dimly lit corridors towards the apartments he and Melina had shared. If Rouchmel had found his note, the king might very well have decided to wait there for his return.

Regardless of the circumstance, he looked forward to seeing his friend and mentor. He'd missed Rouchmel, missed his optimism as much as his insight. What they had to say would be difficult for him to hear, but he hoped it would give the monarch the closure he needed.

He'd rehearsed the speech he planned to give Rouchmel many times. Now, it replayed in his mind while he traversed the familiar hallways. Nothing had outwardly changed, although in the few days since Melina's kidnapping, he guessed there hadn't been time.

Preoccupied with his introspection, he bumped into the one person he didn't wish to see as he turned the last corner to his rooms. "Gedrow, what an unpleasant surprise. Is there a reason you're standing outside my apartments, or are you just lurking?"

Ordinarily arrogant and self-assured, the king's most trusted advisor appeared tense and nervous. "You haven't heard, then. I had hoped not to be the one to tell you, but I have been looking for you, Sire. We all have. Your presence is required immediately."

Doran froze. There had to be some sort of mistake. But unpleasant man wasn't the sort to make jokes. "Don't call me that. That's Rouchmel's title, not mine."

"Please don't make this any more difficult than it is already, Doran. I've never taken you for a fool. He died of an apparent heart attack early this evening."

His head spun. This couldn't be happening. Rouchmel couldn't be dead. Swiftly, though, he focused on one particular word. "Wait, apparent heart attack?"

"Garron thinks he was poisoned, just like Melina. And, with you missing, the capital's close to anarchy. There are rumors of plots and assassinations and the ancestors know what else. You need to make a public appearance before the people riot. The press is already assembled."

"Oh."

He turned around to walk towards the Great Hall, his reflexes reacting faster than his mind. He felt dazed and panicked all at once. He had a duty as Heir Apparent that suddenly put him at odds with their grand plan. He couldn't run, not with the populace ready to riot. But, he couldn't expect Emma to stay.

Emma—something niggled the back of his brain, something Salow had said, something about poison. When he abruptly realized what it was, he turned around, his mouth running a second faster than his brain. "Wait. How did you know Melina was poisoned?"

The knife slid underneath his ribs as easily as a needle through linen. His legs went numb as he dropped to the cold stone floor. His legs were numb, not weak, numb. Blood trickled down his side. Numb fingers refused to move, refused to press against the wound. Something . . . something . . . something was very wrong.

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Emma bolted out of Rouchmel's room the moment Doran's anguish pierced her mind. With an unerring sense of direction, she flew down the empty corridors, drawn to him like a planet to its sun. He lay prone on the floor, a shiny pool of the darkest red blackening the stone beneath him.

"No!"

Turning him over, she ripped apart his shirt, heedless to the buttons flying in all direction. The wound was deceptively small, but the blood pouring down his side suggested it was dangerously deep. Taking off her new wool jacket, she pressed it against the wound. With her free hand, she lightly slapped his face, begging him to wake.

He didn't. He couldn't. He clung to life by the most tenuous grasp. His chest gurgled with each miniscule breath. His solitary heart raced and faltered and skipped and fluttered. And his mind—he had retreated to a place even she could not reach.

Coated in his blood, her hands tingled. Never removing the pressure on his wound, she took an experimental lick. She spat it out when her tongue went numb. He hadn't simply been stabbed; he'd been poisoned with a powerful neurotoxin.

"I need help! Someone help me, please! Help me!"

There had to be someone. Dawn approached; surely one of the servants would hear her. Less than a week after her kidnapping, surely the guards would be on the alert. Where was everyone?

"You're alive."

She whipped her head around, exhaling with relief. She'd never thought she'd be glad to hear the sound of Gedrow Salow's voice, but at that moment she would have happily kissed him.

"Gedrow! Thank Rassilon. Get Garron, quickly! He doesn't have much time."

"No, he doesn't."

She'd already turned her attention back to Doran, but the flat tone of Salow's voice made her look up. He held a laser pistol in his hand, and in that instant she cursed herself for her dimwittedness. Tall and skeletal, Rouchmel's contemporary played the arrogant villain so well that they had dismissed him as being far too obvious a suspect in her kidnapping. How stupid they'd been.

Crouched beside Doran, she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. She refused to die on Galbon. She had to take him by surprise, snap his neck before he could react. But, six feet separated them. He would shoot her dead before she could lay her hand upon him.

A ridiculous plan popped into her head. Barely aware of how she did it, Emma reached within herself to call forth a power not manifested since the Dark Times. Her breathing slowed as she became hyperaware of the scene before her. The widening pool of blood underneath her husband, the constriction of Salow's finger on the trigger, the sounds of boots hitting stone far down the corridor from which she'd come, the scurrying of a beetle in the shadows—it all stopped.

She stared at the frozen tableau, utterly astounded. For a moment, her achievement eclipsed all else, but as her head pounded, she recalled why she had been driven to recreate a Time Lord myth. Salow stood motionless in front of her, his haughty sneer now petrified on his thin face. With a vicious cry, she launched herself into the air.

As her hands reached for his neck, her left foot landed on the hem of her long skirt. Stumbling against her adversary, her concentration broke. Time rolled. Emma yanked Salow's head to give it a vicious twist. The pistol fired. The blood beneath Doran expanded. The beetle scurried away from the commotion.

Shaking, she crawled to Doran, leaving her own trail of blood to mix with his. She reapplied pressure to his wound, refusing to acknowledge the absence of sound, the lack of rattling in his chest. Her head—Rassilon, it pounded, threatening to split her skull in two.

She heard frantic voices. Blearily gazing up, she recognized a familiar face. She made the effort to speak, but couldn't be sure of what she said. She couldn't make the effort to care. Even the awful pounding of her head receded as the world went gray.

Someone shook her. She was so cold, and her body buzzed with an odd tingle. No. No, she couldn't. She wouldn't. The buzzing gradually faded. Oddly at peace, she fell into the black.

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"Doran?"

Emma struggled to raise her head, but she lacked the strength for such a simple task. Her hearts beat in a painful, dissonant rhythm that most certainly would have panicked her had her mind not been so . . . so . . . . She hovered on the verge of consciousness, chasing nebulous visions of catastrophe. An eternity or only a few seconds later, a familiar voice wove itself through her vague nightmares.

"Did the transfusion work, Garron?"

"It's too early to tell, Sire, although there is reason to hope. Her right heart is still in fibrillation, but the levels of oxygen in her blood have improved significantly."

"She called for him again."

"Sire, the toxin is concentrated strivex venom, his chances are less than . . . ."

". . . . no matter the price, do I make myself clear?"

More words drifted above her understanding. Her arm ached, the throbbing at odds with her heartbeats. Her head, still stuffed with fuzzy wool, refused to think. She felt a gentle pressure on her leg before drifting away.

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"Doran?"

Damn it, where was he? Her head pounded; her body creaked. If he insisted on getting her drunk and then shagging her into oblivion, he could damn well be waiting for her with a cheeky grin and a cup of coffee.

"Doran?"

Her voice sounded croaky to her ears. Her right arm—it didn't just throb, it bloody hurt. So did her head. She felt as if she'd jumped into the Time Vortex and stayed there. Rassilon, but she was sore. How long had she been sleeping, anyway?

How long. How long. The question plagued her. She couldn't remember the time or her location. Her surroundings certainly smelled familiar, tantalizingly so. In fact, it smelled like home save for the taint of disinfectant hanging in the air.

A warm hand trailed across her cheek. "Melina, come back to us, please. All of Galbon prays for your recovery."

She groaned aloud. Galbon. She must be stuck in a nightmare. She fought against the weight of her eyelids to refute the voice. She couldn't be on . . . . "Galbon?"

Rouchmel gazed down at her, tears in his eyes. Lines of fatigue etched his face. He'd foregone shaving long enough for his stubble to turn into scraggly whiskers. His usually straight, reedy nose was swollen and red. His mouth gaped until he snapped his jaw together to form a disbelieving smile. The longer she stared at him, the bigger it grew, until it transformed his countenance from one of sorrow to elation.

"Oh, my child."

His voice broke and the tears streamed down his face. She struggled to sit, but had to do so one-handed when her injured arm refused to cooperate. Supporting her weight, he pushed several pillows behind her to prop her up. Then, he helped her sip from a glass of cool water. It tasted like honey on her scratchy throat.

As she slowly remembered the reason for her bandaged arm, she thought the water might come back up.

"Doran?"

He couldn't meet her eyes. "The toxin has spread through his tissues. It's simply a matter of time."

She refused to believe his grim pronouncement. Not sensing Doran's emotions, she reached for her ring, but it no longer rested on her swollen finger. Garron would regret it if he'd cut it from her hand. Forsaking the comfort of bed, she flung the blanket away and struggled to stand. She took a shaky step forward before clutching the bedpost for support. Rouchmel put his arm around her waist, careful not to jostle her injured arm. She brushed his hand away; she would not be tucked into bed like a child. Instead, she took several wobbly steps.

"Melina, I know how much you wish to see him, but you can't jeopardize your own health. He wouldn't have wanted—"

She brusquely put out her left hand, demanding he stop. Since it was a gesture she had often used against him in another lifetime, it shocked him into silence. She might look like Melina, but she had left that sweet, biddable personality behind months ago. She refused to play the damsel in distress with Doran's life at stake.

"No offense to Garron, but I'm much more likely to find an antidote to the neurotoxin than he is. So stay here and argue to the empty walls or help me to his room."

Obviously shocked by her assertive behavior, he stood immobile for several seconds. Her knees shaking, she waited for his answer. "Melina . . . ." Standing on her left, he supported her weight when she could not. As he slowly led her to Doran, he softly assured her, "Your mother would have been so proud."

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Doran really didn't want to wake. Hell, he hurt in his dreams, which meant reality had to be worse. Eventually, though, boredom forced him to consciousness where he received a pleasant jolt.

"He told me you were dead," he rasped through cracked lips.

Putting down the book he'd been reading, Rouchmel let out a snort of derision. "Poisoned soup—a pathetic attempt at assassination if there ever was one. Thankfully, he was already under surveillance. I can only offer you my humblest apology, Doran. When he attacked you and Melina, he had escaped custody."

"Melina, she . . . ?" His heart raced with terror.

"Is sleeping in your bedchamber," the king finished soothingly. "You have been sick for quite a while, my son. And, it is Melina you have to thank for developing a cure for the poison on the traitor's blade."

Holding the straw so he could drink, the king added lightly, "She truly is her mother's daughter. I believe she drove poor Garron to drink after some of their more frightening debates. She does not suffer fools gladly, at least not when your life is in the balance." Smiling broadly, he finished, "I envy you, Doran, but I wouldn't trade places for the world. I thought Gemma headstrong and opinionated until I witnessed one of my daughter's tirades firsthand. You have an interesting life ahead of you, my friend."

Stunned, Doran didn't quite know what to say. Their plan to appear secretly to Rouchmel and leave in the dead of night had gone pitifully astray. But, he never expected Emma to assert herself quite so forcefully in public. Luckily, Garron entered soon enough afterwards that he didn't have to reply.

Instead, he endured a tedious medical examination which only strengthened his suspicion that he'd come ridiculously close to dying. To have been caught so off guard by Salow frankly wounded his pride. And, by the way Garron clicked his tongue, he doubted he would be able to leave the bed, much less the infirmary, anytime soon.

After answering a string of infuriatingly simple questions and putting up with a battery of tests, Doran thought he might scream just to see what reaction he might get. The usually agreeable physician had poked and prodded and quizzed him on trivialities, but he hadn't once asked him how he felt.

"Remarkable. The Lady Melina has truly performed a miracle. Your organs are functioning without assistance and your cognitive abilities seem to be intact. I had expected you to be little more than a simpleton."

"Gee, thanks," he griped, and the young healer with the chiseled cheekbones finally realized his insensitivity. Blushing, he stammered an apology.

Doran didn't hear it. Emma's appearance in the doorway captivated his attention. A sling cradled her right arm. She wore a loose red tunic over fitted black trousers tucked into men's boots. Her shirt clashed terribly with her auburn hair, which stuck out from her braid at random intervals like some sort of parasitic weed trying to choke a sturdy vine. But the intensity of her smile made all else fade.

Ignoring Rouchmel and Garron, she knelt beside him, resting her head against his arm. His joy mirrored hers. Closing his eyes, he slipped into her mind for a more intimate reunion.

As they stood in a sunny field of red grass, she hugged him so tightly he thought he might burst. Laughing self-consciously, he threaded his fingers through her unbound hair.

"I guess it must have been a pretty close call."

"You've no idea," she whispered as she pulled him down for a blistering kiss.

Her raw emotions exposed the truth of her statement. He wanted nothing more than to show her just how alive he was, how alive they both were, but the mental contact physically taxed him. The pain that had chased his dreams returned with a vengeance. Instantly sensing his discomfort, she gave him a last, fierce hug before retreating from his thoughts.

What little stamina he'd had upon waking deserted him. His body ached with fatigue. As he fought to stay awake, Emma listened to Garron's report. She glanced at him time and again, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the quiet conversation. If it was important, he'd hear about it later. He fought slumber for the chance to exchange a kiss with the Time Lord in reality. After what seemed like ages, he finally got his wish, although he didn't understand why her eyelashes now clumped together.

"You should remember waking this time," she tremulously assured him.

His mouth went dry. "How long?"

"Almost three weeks."

No wonder her lashes were wet with tears. Close call didn't begin to describe what Salow had done to him. As the heaviness of his eyelids increased, he breathed three words, "Stay with me."

"Always."


	27. Duty

Author's Notes - Thank you to everyone who has given this story a try. I hope you enjoy the update!

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A muscle cramp in his left calf jerked Doran from his restful slumber. Kicking outwards to relieve the pain, his knee came in contact with an extra pair of legs. His eyes flew open and he saw red, literally. Loose, Emma's frizzed auburn hair obstructed his vision, but he didn't care. His grip tightened on the sleeping Time Lord who had nestled against his chest.

With a strangled gasp, she sat upright. From the way she pressed against her right shoulder, he knew her to be hurting. "What's wrong?"

"Laser pistol to the shoulder," she answered through clenched teeth. "The humerus split between the greater and lesser tubercle."

"But you said it's been three weeks."

The taut muscles in her face immediately relaxed, although he could tell her pain hadn't completely receded.

"You remember."

Doran jumped out of the warm bed onto the cold floor to stretch his calf after it cramped again. The mere act of standing left him trembling, but pride of his accomplishment eclipsed his frailty. He flashed a triumphant grin before sitting wearily on the bed.

"Sweetheart, you're impossible to forget. And as soon as I have a few meals in me, I'm going to show you how glad I am we're both alive. But right now, I'm not letting you change the subject. It's been three weeks. Why hasn't the bone healed?"

Scooting to his right side, she leaned against his shoulder. The sweet smell of wildflower shampoo mingled with the warm scent of cinnamon. He'd missed that smell, missed the weight of her body against his. For a long while, he simply stroked her hair, enjoying the chance to be next to her again. When he realized she had no intention of answering, though, he feared the worst.

"You're not going to regenerate, are you? I mean, if you need to, that's fine, but we should probably get out of here first."

"I'm not sure I can."

His hand stilled on her head. "I don't understand."

She looked up at him, her face a reflection of misery. "I'm not sure I can regenerate, Doran. After Salow shot me, the severity of my wounds triggered a regeneration, but I consciously blocked it. Garron saved me with a blood transfusion. I'm alive, but not healing the way I should. And . . . I believe my mental faculties to be impaired."

She spoke the last sentence so softly that he almost missed it. When his brain finally processed what she had said, he felt momentarily lightheaded. She sounded perfectly normal to him.

"How?"

"I'm time blind," she tremulously confessed, rushing through an explanation before he could ask. "Before, I could tell you to the nanosecond how long I had slept, or the precise interval between the beatings of your heart, but it's like there's something fundamental missing from inside my head, something I can't begin to explain. It's like I've lost a part of me, the part that makes me a Time Lord. Before, I could follow individual timelines, track all the critical junctures in a person's life, but now . . . . I try to look at the Web of Time, and all I get is a headache. And, I'm terrified that it will only get worse. What if I lose the significance of an hour or a rel? Night and Day? Cause and effect? Then and now? What will I be then, Doran?"

"My wife," he answered without hesitation. "Emma, I'm not trying to make light of what's happened to you. I can't imagine what it must be like for you right now. But, you will always be my wife. I will always be there for you. And I will always love you, whether you're a powerful kick-ass Time Lord, or a confused young woman struggling with her identity or someone in between. You're still the best person I've ever met, Sweetheart."

He watched apprehensively as the contradictory emotions swept over her face. Holding his breath, he nervously awaited her response, fearing she'd explode in a fit of fear and anger. He didn't think he could endure her rejection. Incredibly, after grappling with her emotions, she playfully raised her eyebrows.

"Did you just call me a powerful, kick-ass Time Lord?"

"You know it, beautiful."

She poked her finger into his chest before collapsing against him in a fit of hysterical giggles. When she finally caught her breath, she hugged him with her good arm. "Doran, you are the most absurd man I have ever met. I think that's why I love you so much. Kick-ass. Brax would be appalled."

As she uttered the strange name, Emma immediately sobered. Her eyes lost their sparkle as the weight of her guilt returned. He pretended not to notice.

"Hey, I'm starving. Want to go back to our rooms and satisfy me?" He ended his proposition with a silly, over the top wink more appropriate to some ancient pantomime than real life. She responded by slapping his arm.

"You'll have to content yourself with soup instead. Rouchmel promised to have the cooks make your favorite."

"I have a favorite soup? Is that anything like having a favorite wife?"

"It better not be."

Kissing him, she gave him every reason to remember why she was his only wife. Then, she left with a reluctant backwards glance, presumably to inform the kitchen staff of the need for soup. Not being completely crazy, he didn't try to follow. He could barely stand; it would take much longer for him to walk from the infirmary to the kitchens. Garron's overheard warning came back to haunt him. He had weeks of physical therapy ahead of him. Still, it definitely beat the alternative.

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Doran waltzed into his apartments whistling the tune of a popular Galbonian folk song. After six weeks of tedious tests and intense physical therapy, Garron had finally declared him fit. He intended to take Emma somewhere appropriate to celebrate, although on Galbon those choices were somewhat limited. Thankfully, Rouchmel had suggested the perfect spot just that morning.

While impeccably maintained, the hunting lodge on the king's personal estates hadn't been used in years. Built in the middle of a breathtaking old growth forest, the structure boasted modern conveniences within a rustic atmosphere. The massive stone fireplace had been fashioned from huge chunks of amber. Rouchmel had gone on to say that in the light of the fire, the hearth glowed like a gigantic, flickering candle. He'd assured him that women found it quite romantic.

Ruth turned away from the window at the sound of his whistling, and the jaunty tune died on his lips. "Sweetheart?"

Hastily, she wiped her eyes and tried to pretend nothing was amiss. "Doran. I wasn't expecting you back so soon. What did Garron say?"

Joining her by the window, he watched a group of boisterous schoolchildren tour the formal gardens. He, like Emma, stayed away from the glass so the young tourists wouldn't become aware of their presence. Hidden behind the tall hedges, the dozen boys pushed and shoved as they chased each other through the hedgerows, but acted like perfect gentlemen in plain sight. The seven girls didn't venture as far as the boys, enjoying the smell of the exotic blooms in the center of the garden rather than roughhousing about the edges.

"Garron says I'm normal. Since he put so much effort into patching me up, I didn't want to insult him by telling him how extraordinary I really am. Guess you'll have to tell him for me once we get back from Blevel Lodge. I feel fantastic, Sweetheart."

When his teasing boasts failed to elicit a response, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's my duty to return."

He made a conscious effort to keep his voice level and, above all, gentle. "I know. But, I think it's important we spend some time alone first. Surely, the war will wait another week, Emma."

Her jaw trembled as fresh tears slipped down her face. "Doran, I can't."

Stiffening, he thought he might explode. Why couldn't Emma wait a week to return to Gallifrey when she'd been away for well over a year? He might have let his frustration get the better of him if she hadn't quickly taken a deep breath to explain.

"Rassilon, forgive me, but I can't go back. The thought of facing a Dalek again makes me physically ill, Doran, not to mention the possibility that I'll be ordered to kill someone I love. And, what if I'm captured? What if . . . ."

Her face paled as her breathing quickened. Beads of sweat collected on her forehead. Touching her left shoulder, he offered her a sip of water, but her eyes stayed fixed with a blank stare.

"Emma?"

He gave her a little shake, but she didn't react. After she didn't respond to another call of her name, he grabbed her right shoulder. With a gasp, she looked into his eyes, although she blinked dazedly before recognizing him.

"Doran? I . . . ."

When she swayed on her feet, his arms flew to her waist. "Hey, you aren't going to faint on me, are you, Sweetheart?"

"Faint? Of course not, Time Lords don't . . . ."

He tightened his grip as her body went limp. Easing her to the ground, he unbuttoned her heavy wool jacket and loosened the collar of her shirt. Pressing his hand against her neck, he found her skin much too cold, though her hearts beat in a steady rhythm. When she didn't immediately rouse, he wished for some of Garron's smelling salts or the physician himself. Since neither was available, he resorted to lightly slapping her cheek and repeatedly calling her name.

Finally, her eyes flickered open. "Doran?"

Smiling in reassurance and relief, he stroked his thumb across her cheek. "How are you feeling, Sweetheart?"

"Did I just faint?"

"Yeah, I think you're going to have to revise your 'Time Lords don't faint' argument."

"Oh." Biting her bottom lip, she fingered the open collar of her linen shirt. "Then I feel embarrassed."

He kept his voice intentionally light as he continued to stroke her cheek. "Don't be. I know what it's like to have an intense flashback. Or were you going to argue that Time Lords don't get those, either?"

"I . . . I'm sorry I have such a weak mind. I must be a horrible disappointment."

He poured his devotion into his kiss until she had no choice but to feel his love for her. When he finally pulled back, he gently pressed his lips against her forehead.

"Hey, you know that's not true. It takes a heck of a lot of courage to admit you're having problems, Emma. You've done more than could ever be expected. It's alright. Let it be someone else's turn now. You need to focus on healing."

"The High Council won't see it like that. I'll be labeled a coward."

"They put you on convalescent leave before. Why wouldn't they do it again? They can't be that desperate, Emma. You'd only be a liability, or worse, a martyr."

"I think they must be," she answered quietly through her sniffles. "I think the war must be going very badly."

"Why?"

Pulling away from his embrace, she haltingly returned to the window. For several minutes, she simply watched the schoolchildren as they played in the garden. Joining her, he wished she would let him into her mind, but it was shut tight.

"No child has been born or loomed on Gallifrey in eight years. After the . . . after I woke up in the Citadel infirmary, one of my healers confessed his disappointment. He said that for the General's wife to be with child would have been just the spark of hope Gallifrey needed. I was too miserable at the time to consider the implications, but I understand now. The High Council's machinations aren't confined to the lesser species, Doran. If they thought we stood a chance against the Daleks, they would find a way to encourage population growth."

He felt the unexpected panic pressing against his chest. "But, I saw—"

"A future that wasn't fixed." Taking a deep breath, she continued with a cracking voice, "Before I left for my last mission, I heard a rumor, a rumor I wouldn't give credence to until now. I heard from one of my allies on the Council that the General had developed a weapon, one with the power to end the war, but at a terrible price. Our history is so entwined with the Daleks now that to destroy one would be to destroy the other. If all else fails, we shall be unmade, our legacy nothing more than forgotten myths whispered by the most advanced species. And, in committing such a terrible act, the Daleks will be destroyed."

Sitting down in a nearby chair, Doran rubbed his eyes. A weapon like that, he couldn't imagine it. Oh, he'd seen weapons destroy worlds before. Earth had possessed the capability to destroy itself long before humans had achieved interstellar flight. And during a grueling three week mission to Zlexir, he'd stopped the release of a virus that would have wiped out that planet's indigenous population. But, to unmake an entire species, a species that had interfered with time on such a large scale—a clammy chill of fear shot through him.

"I hope you're wrong, Emma. The gaps in causality alone would fracture the time stream."

She flashed a brief, wistful smile before replying. "You underestimate my bond mate, Doran. If anyone can end the Time War without fracturing time, it would be him. I wish you could have met him properly. You're just the type of human he likes."

He chose to abandon the topic rather than ask the twenty or so questions her explanation provoked. Though the supposed doomsday weapon equally intrigued and appalled him, Doran didn't want to become distracted discussing a tangent. Emma's health took precedence.

"That's me, human and likeable. But we're talking about you right now. That wasn't the first flashback you've had since returning to Galbon, was it?"

"No, but it was the worst."

The guilt plowed into him like a Sontaran battle cruiser. He should have realized weeks ago. But he'd spent most of his days in physical therapy and his nights in exhausted sleep. He hadn't even questioned her lack of appetite during their infrequent shared dinners. How could he have not noticed the weight she had lost? Against the bright afternoon sun, her cheeks were sharp and angular and her eyes sunken.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Sweetheart. I should have known something was wrong a long time ago."

"It's not your fault. I didn't want you to know. I didn't want anyone to know. I thought I could handle it on my own."

Lacing his fingers with hers, he squeezed her hand. "We'll handle it together. We'll stay at Blevel Lodge away from the crowds and the reporters and Rouchmel's court for as long as it takes. And then we'll figure out what to do from there."

"Second chances again, Doran?"

"As many as it takes."

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Picking a juicy sweetberry off a prickly vine, Emma dropped it into the half-filled bucket. Picking another, she popped the succulent yellow fruit into her mouth. The morning sun warmed her bare shoulders, and she hummed an ancient Gallifreyan folk song under her breath as she harvested as many of the berries as she could carry.

Unlike the palace, the lush gardens of Blevel Lodge had been planted for practicality. In addition to several varieties of berries, herbs and leafy vegetables lined the symmetrical paths. She attributed her renewed passion for cooking to the fresh and plentiful produce she picked with her own hands. Carrying the now full bucket towards the house, she made a mental note to return later in the day to cut a few sprigs of savory herbs to season the fish Doran had promised for their dinner.

Hauling the heavy bucket to the kitchen, she struggled to dump the berries into a large strainer with one hand. With the nerve and bone damage to her shoulder, her right arm barely functioned. Sometimes, her handicaps bothered her, but lately, she had come to regard them as a blessing of fate. Doran was right; she had given enough of herself to the Time War. She had nothing for which to be ashamed.

She rinsed the berries under the running water and then patted them dry. On the large butcher's block in the middle of the kitchen, she divided them into two bowls, one to make the filling for the tarts and one to be frozen for later enjoyment. Cooking down the fruit, she thought about the last three weeks.

She and Doran hadn't spoken much of their future. Instead, he'd spoken of his past, of a green Time Agent and his best friend thrust into the civil war on Peggra as their first assignment. Still teenagers, they'd been used by the Agency as little more than fodder while more senior agents planted the bombs that would destroy the rebel headquarters to end the bloody conflict. And through it all, she had seethed. The Agency had used him much like the High Council had used her. Doran, of course, didn't see it that way. He blamed himself for a failed mission, one in which he and his partner were captured and brutally tortured before his childhood friend had finally been killed.

He told her of the nightmares and the flashbacks and the failed suicide attempt. And, then he explained all the ways the psychiatrists at the Agency had made him better, how they'd treated him until he could process his mistakes. She'd wanted to scream at that point, to hammer into his brain that he hadn't made any mistakes save trusting the Time Agency, but by then she had understood the futility of it all.

She might be physically, emotionally and mentally damaged, but she wasn't stupid. She saw the similarities. She and Doran, they were alike. They'd both seen too much war, too much cruelty, too much hate. They'd both been abused, both manipulated, and both had wanted to die at one time or another.

And yet, together they were so much more. With him, she could deal with the nightmares, confront the flashbacks, refuse to sink into a cesspool of self-pity. With him, she didn't have to pretend to be strong or brave or clever when she wasn't. He loved her, unconditionally, just as she loved him. And, during those dark times when she forgot she deserved to be loved, he didn't run away.

For the first time since her daughter's death, she'd dreamt of the future, one with Doran at her side. The dream likely signified nothing more than growing contentment and a hopeful subconscious, but it had been breathtakingly beautiful. Impossible as it was, she had dreamed of a chubby, dark-haired toddler with green eyes running naked through the red grass of home. The boy shrieked with delight as he shocked the more stodgy elders. That morning, she'd woken with a smile on her face.

While the tarts baked, a door slammed open and shut. She smiled in anticipation, and didn't have long to wait for Doran to walk into the spacious kitchen. He carried ten large river fish strung on a wooden pole, enough to feed them for several days or last through the one meal she had secretly planned for that evening.

A grin split his face as his eyes roved appreciatively up and down her body. "A sundress, how provocative of you Emma. The next thing you know, you'll be showing your knees."

"Perhaps I'll start a new fashion trend."

He put his catch in the cooler, his cheery smile faltering for only a moment. "Well, you'd be the one to do it. Lord Vadro once told me your approval rating is higher than Rouchmel's."

Ignoring the smell of fish, she stretched to give him a chaste kiss. Bending down, he turned her peck into a blazing snog. They broke apart only when the timer rang to indicate the tarts were done.

"You're baking," he playfully accused. Before she could ask, he donned an oven mitt to remove the perfectly prepared dessert from the convection oven disguised as a wood burning stove.

"Hell, Emma, I know you like sweetberries, but this is ridiculous. Even I can't eat more than one of those tarts."

"That's a good thing," she answered lightly, hoping he wouldn't be upset by her surprise. "Because I invited Rouchmel for dinner, and you know he can't go anywhere without at least a dozen retainers and knights."

When his face became an expressionless mask, she momentarily feared his anger, but all she could sense was a high level of anxiety. Trying to ease his worries, she quickly added, "I thought it would be best to tell him first."

"Tell him?"

"That we're staying on Galbon."

He quickly wiped his just washed hands dry before picking her up by the waist. With an excited sparkle in his eyes, he spun her in an exuberant circle. "You mean that?"

"So long as he doesn't pester us too much about grandchildren. I'm not quite ready for that yet."

Just when she thought his smile couldn't get any brighter, it did. "Does that mean you'll be ready sometime?"

She couldn't help it. She smirked playfully as she ran her fingers down his chest, "I see you've finally mastered the subtleties of Galbonian grammar. Well done, Doran."

Without warning, he swept her off her feet. As he practically ran with her towards their bedroom, she chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Doran, I certainly didn't mean today."

"Practice makes perfect, Sweetheart!"

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Pacing the length of the kitchen, Emma stirred the hearty stew simmering in the large cast iron pot. Of course Rouchmel had called the strategic summit the very day she had planned to tell Doran that they'd practiced enough. Knowing how important the summit was to the future of Galbon, she'd held her tongue when he bid her goodbye. While a superb tactician, the thought of sex tended to distract her wonderfully human husband. She could only imagine what the thought of having sex for the express purpose of starting a family would do to his concentration.

"You're shivering, My Lady. Would you like me to start a fire in the great hall?"

She looked down at her right hand, barely aware of the tremors that vexed poor Ghalea. Dressed in a long wool skirt and thick wool jacket, the snowy autumn evening didn't bother her at all, especially in the warm kitchen. However, after a quick look at her new maid, she thought the question might have been for the girl's benefit as much as hers. Ghalea wore a shawl over her jacket and had her fingers tucked under her armpits for added warmth.

"That would be lovely, Ghalea. Thank you."

The tall, often clumsy young maid ran out of the kitchen without a glance backwards. Emma smiled at her lack of decorum. Continuing to pace, she heard the clank of the metal fireplace tongs and the thud of the heavy logs dropping in the hearth.

"You think we can eat in here, Emma? I'm freezing."

She whirled around. "Doran! I didn't hear the door."

Still wearing his wool travelling cloak, he pulled her into a hug. "That's because I came in just as Ghalea was trying to start a fire. That girl makes more racket than an angry Ice Warrior. That stew smells delicious. Did you save any for me?"

Looking up into his deep blue eyes, she smiled. "I did better than that. I waited for you."

He smiled back, and only then did she notice the purple smudges underneath his eyes. "Sweetheart, it's almost midnight. At least tell me you ate lunch."

She bit the bottom of her lip. "I didn't mean to skip it, honestly, Doran. I was in the middle of baking bread, see?"

She held up a crusty loaf of sourdough bread. The intense aroma of the bitter herbs baked within the loaf momentarily left her lightheaded. Damn, she hadn't eaten breakfast as well—and, perhaps dinner the night before. She'd been so intent on making everything perfect for his homecoming that she'd simply forgotten.

His left arm wrapped around her waist while he returned the bread to the plate with his free hand. Sitting her on one of the kitchen stools, he dished up a late supper for the both of them.

"Ghalea is supposed to remind you, Emma. I don't care that she's Hanna's cousin. If she's not a help to you then we need to find someone else. Rouchmel's asked me to attend to more of the day to day functioning of the court. If you're intent on living at Blevel Lodge, I need to know your maid's going to at least see to it you to eat."

Too tired to take offense, she concentrated on eating rather than talking. Nothing was going to plan. They were supposed to enjoy a quiet meal together while he talked of the summit. Then, after his favorite dessert, she would casually show him the mural she had painted in the old nursery over the last five days rather than face her all too frequent nightmares alone. He would joyfully lead her into their bedroom if he didn't sweep her off her feet, and they would spend the rest of the night creating and celebrating a new life. Only, neither one of them seemed to be in any mood to celebrate.

His thumb stroked her cheek. "Hey, I didn't mean to scold you like that, Emma. I know you're more than capable. I'm just tired, Sweetheart. The provincial delegates kept pestering me at all hours of the night. I guess being Heir Apparent has its disadvantages."

"You're tired."

"Exhausted, actually," he admitted with a quick press of his lips against hers. "If it's alright with you, I'm going to skip dessert and go straight to bed. The pie smells delicious. I'll have some for breakfast. I promise."

"I'm tired, too."

"I figured as much. You've been painting again. I can smell it. Why don't we get some sleep and then you can show me what you've been working on in the morning."

Her disappointment vanished. While it wasn't the homecoming she'd planned, Emma was very glad Doran was home. He was right; the rest could wait until the morning.

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"_**What**__ is the __**code**__ for the trans-__**duc**__-tion __**bar**__-ri-__**er**__?"_

_Too exhausted to glare, the battered Time Lord stared dumbly at the three Daleks encased in dull gray Dalekanium. The mind probe's relentless assault had cracked her mental shields like a heavy truncheon against safety glass. Another attack and she would shatter. For the sake of the children, she could not allow herself to fail. She began to burrow into her mind, hiding her psyche deep within her subconscious. As she continued to withdraw, she saw a flash of red metal. Gray. Gray. Gray. Red. But, she was too far gone to realize the importance. . . ._

_The tri-protonic disrupter wave entered the Dalek in the center of the eyestalk. The repugnant beast inside the deadly metal can screamed in agony, and then uttered a command that had her racing down the corridor of the Time Agency where she had heard the voices._

_"Casing im-paired. Self-de-struct se-quence act-i-va-ted."_

_Automatically, Emma dove behind a large obsidian statue of the Mighty Marmot of Milcon just as the Dalek on her left fired. Shielded from the blast, she took careful aim and killed the metal monster. The all too familiar sound of "Exterminate" immediately to her right, however, revealed the intricacy of the trap. A red Command Dalek emerged from the thick fog, its particle beam pointed directly at her chest. She remembered well this particular Dalek from her torture under the mind probe. As much as a Dalek could revel in torture, this one did._ . . . _Gray. . . gray. . . red. Gray. . . gray. . . red. Gray. . . gray. . . red. Gray . . . gray . . . gray . . . red. _

The hysterical Time Lord let loose a scream from her throat. Doran bolted upright, sonic blaster at the ready. An instant later, he had his arms around her. Too distraught to speak, Emma sobbed against his chest, mourning the beautiful boy of her dreams. She had to go back. She'd killed three Daleks at the Time Agency, not four. Damn, fucking Daleks. They'd ruined her life—again.


	28. A Coward's Bravery

"Promise me you'll protect her."

Doran stared out the window of Rouchmel's study that overlooked the formal gardens. Encased in snow, the bare hedges gave the impression of stiff corpses lining the open square. Unnerved by his melancholy, he looked away.

"I tried to convince her to stay."

He had. After waking up to her screams that horrible night, he'd listened to all the reasons why they had to return to the Time Agency. And, he'd agreed with all of them, except the necessity of her return. For hours, their fierce shouting had echoed off the walls of Blevel Lodge.

Then she had begged. Eyes bloodshot and glassy, she had quietly pleaded that he not abandon her. She'd said she would rather die than live without him, confessed that she'd rather be killed by a Dalek particle beam than waste away on Galbon. She'd told him she couldn't imagine anyone's hands on her but his, couldn't dream of having a life without him. At that point, he'd conceded the argument—because he felt the same.

He felt the comforting weight of Rouchmel's hand on his shoulder. "Doran, Melina only thrives on Galbon because of you. With her memories restored, she is her mother's daughter. No matter the reforms I have made, she would find my world stifling without you."

"She could die."

"Nonsense," the older man assured him before turning to search the cluttered shelves that lined his study. "I made you her knight, did I not?"

"Try telling her that."

The older man paused in his search. "You will protect her. I know this. She knows this, even if such knowledge frightens her. Allow me the fantasy that both of you will come through this whole and together. I do not like knowing that my children go to war, Doran."

The former Time Agent found it impossible to answer with the tight lump that had lodged in his throat. Rouchmel didn't appear to notice. Fingering a small leather book, he sat wearily at the massive oak desk.

"I fear for her people if they must rely on their women to fight, my son. They used Gemma in such a cruel way. I thank the ancestors every day that she found a small measure of peace here with me before she died. She would not want her daughter to walk the same treacherous path. Promise me above all that you will protect her from her own kind."

"I promise," he solemnly vowed, stunned yet again by the older man's insight. The Time Lords had used Emma cruelly. He wasn't about to let them exploit her again, especially now that she was time blind.

Picking up the red book from his desk, Rouchmel abruptly changed the topic. With a hint of wistfulness, he handed the leather tome to Doran. "This is Julig the Third's personal journal. Gemma unearthed it on the first dig she led. With it, she found my ancestor's lost depository of knowledge. I'd like you to have it. Give it to your daughter when she's old enough to appreciate it. Tell her that her grandmother was a stubborn, brilliant woman, just like her mother."

"Rouchmel, I . . . ." Before he could think of an appropriate response, the king had removed a heavy gold ring from his finger. The large ruby in the center glittered in the light. He pressed it into Doran's empty hand.

"This ring has been passed down through the Blevel line since the dawn of our rule. I can think of no one better to wear it, Doran. When the time comes, tell your son that his grandfather wished he could have met him, but he is certain that any child of yours will be both brave and compassionate."

"I can't take this," he stammered, completely overwhelmed. "This isn't right. It doesn't belong to me. You should save it for your own son, Sire."

Rouchmel's gaze never wavered as he closed Doran's fingers around the ring. "The Blevel dynasty is at an end, but you are my heir in all ways that matter, my son. Take the ring. Let a foolish man pretend it will protect you from harm, the way it has protected our family for countless generations."

"I . . . ." He didn't know what to say. Rouchmel, as much as Emma, had restored his faith in humanity. He owed the solemn man so much, much more than he could ever repay.

"Thank you," he finally murmured, hoping his sincerity would make up for the brevity of his response. "Sorry, for once I'm speechless."

His honesty pulled a laugh from the king's throat. "You mean to say that I have found a way to silence Lord Rick's infamous glib tongue? I wish I had thought to record such a feat. The public will never believe it."

Slipping the ring and book into his pockets, Doran relaxed as he led the conversation into more familiar territory. "Hopefully, they'll believe exactly what they need to. Is everything ready for the launch?"

As soon as the question registered, the king turned businesslike, his face a calm façade. "The charges on the shuttle are set for forty-one seconds after liftoff. You're certain your teleport will engage before then?"

Doran flashed him a cocky grin. "Have a little faith in your knight, Sire. When the ship blows up, we'll be on another planet." And another time, he added regretfully in his mind. When he and Emma returned to the fifty-first century, Galbon would once again be the purview of archaeologists, its secrets, like its people, dead and buried.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Holding Emma's hand, Doran waved to the vast crowd that had gathered to wish their new ambassadors a safe journey to Skaro. They would never reach that hellhole of a world. Their shuttle would explode seconds after launch, spurring a carefully crafted rumor of alien conspiracies to sweep the globe. In his grief, Rouchmel would sever ties with the other worlds in the sector, declaring his planet off limits to interstellar contact. Galbon would flourish in isolation for thousands of years—until the day the Daleks invaded to kill everyone on the planet.

Aware of his thoughts, Emma squeezed his fingers. Just a few minutes more and they would be safely away from Galbon and all the temptations it posed. She would miss the world that had become her second home. At least the shuttle explosion would ensure the planet's safety for thousands of years. And with the reforms Rouchmel would push through in her memory, his people would experience their golden age.

Finally strapped into her seat, she reached out again for her husband's hand. If they both made it out of the Time Agency alive, she wanted her dream to come true on a different world. She had no intention of returning to Gallifrey. Her torture on Tuem had transformed her from a confident killer to a broken shell of a woman. Even so, she preferred to remain broken than continue as a provocateur and spy. If she had to kill, she would do so facing her enemy rather than knifing a supposed friend in the back. While ignoble, at least it was honest.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the countdown. Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, ignition—she landed face first on hard concrete, her injured arm stretched painfully out in front of her.

"Shit."

Carefully turning her head in the direction of Doran's voice, she noted gratefully that he stood in more or less one piece. The knees of his breeches had ripped, and she felt an irrational pang of disappointment. She'd quite liked the way they hugged his thighs. Ignoring his bloodied knees, he limped towards her.

"Can you stand, Emma?"

She pushed herself up with her left hand in answer to his question. Lightheaded, her stomach roiled, but she managed to keep her breakfast down. Her right humerus had definitely split along the previous fracture. With a supreme effort, she ignored the pain to take a look at their surroundings.

Concrete stretched as far as she could see. Twisting glass edifices aglow with blue, pink and red scraped the nighttime clouds. Sharp, metallic abstract art lined the wide streets along with more surveillance cameras than she cared to count. Passersby ignored them as they strode past, too intent on the financial news being streamed to their visors to wonder at the appearance of two strangers.

So this was Avarice, the planet where anything that could be sold was. It certainly didn't look like the seedy underbelly of the Milky Way, but then looks were oftentimes misleading. If she remembered her CIA briefing from a century ago, the colors on the buildings represented the category of items for sale.

"We need to get out of here," Doran abruptly announced as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Too many of the buildings are blue."

Blue—the designation for sentient life. Lovely, they'd teleported to the notorious slave markets of Avarice. Suddenly, the surveillance cameras made much more sense. Slavers weren't too picky about the pedigree of their merchandise. Obvious outsiders like themselves would be easy targets for those trying to fill a particular desire. Doran was right; they needed to leave before someone tried to complete an order for a female with auburn hair or male with blue eyes.

Without appearing to be in too much of a hurry, they walked briskly towards the yellow zone to the east. At least the weapons dealers didn't sell their customers. Sweat beaded on Emma's forehead as managing her pain took more and more of her concentration. When the agony became too great to ignore, she looked in vain for a green building. If she could buy a basic tissue regenerator, she could modify it for healing bone.

Soon they walked down a busy street comprised entirely of yellow buildings. Many passersby wore special eyewear to enhance the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. The vast majority were visibly armed, from the sharp hunting knife strapped to a Spartan's thigh to the bulky plasma launcher shouldered by a Verox. Doran carried the sword of a Galbonian Knight Protector at his side, while his sonic blaster stayed holstered discreetly underneath his jacket. Weaponless, Emma wore his Vortex Manipulator on her left wrist, though her newly broken arm negated the advantage such technology offered.

Stopping ostensibly to admire a display of incendiary devices, Doran quietly hissed in Emma's ear. "Sweetheart, you look like you're going to faint. You sure you're up to this?"

"Yes," she promised, her voice ragged to her own ears. "I reinjured my shoulder. I'll be fine."

Cursing under his breath, his eyes swept the surrounding buildings. "I can't keep Blix waiting, but as soon as the transaction's complete, we'll look for green. Think you can hold on until then?"

"Not much choice," she grunted.

Nodding, his jaw tensed in that way she'd come to define as determined but anxious. Making a disparaging comment about the imprecise nature of Molotov cocktails, he led her down an unlit alleyway. From the hired thugs lining the darkened street, she guessed they were minutes away from meeting the infamous Blix, former First Captain of the Viking Brigade of Valhalla Seven.

Trailing Doran two steps behind and to the left, Emma shoved the stabbing pain of her broken arm to a tiny corner of her mind and then firmly bricked it away. She walked submissively, her head bowed as she counted the feet of fifteen guards present in the spacious, wood paneled room.

"Sigurd, my friend! What devilment brings you to my Hall? I'd thought you'd have quit this business long ago."

Taken aback by the genuine warmth of the greeting, Emma peeked at the battle-hardened warrior turned arms dealer. Tall and broad-shouldered, Blix wore his long blond hair tied back with a leather cord. His simple forest green tunic hit mid-thigh, covering the best view of his snug black leather leggings. She thought his lack of armor odd considering his profession, but she supposed the sheer number of guards more than made up for its absence.

As the two men clapped each other heartily on the back, Blix's eyes bored into Emma's. Hastily, she dropped her gaze. If the Time Agency had put a price on her head, he would be in the position to claim a substantial bounty. Although Doran had assured her of the man's honor, she wasn't willing to trust a stranger with her life. Deliberately, she hunched her back in an attempt to appear as small and nonthreatening as possible.

"I see you're still rescuing strays, Sigurd. She's captivating. How long have you had her?" The Time Lord didn't dare raise her head, so she couldn't see Doran reaction, though she could feel his anxiety surge from across the room.

"Not nearly long enough," he remarked flippantly in an innuendo laden voice.

"Oh? That's high praise coming from you. Perhaps you'd be willing to share? Ten percent off for one night, fifty if you give me the week. There's just something about her eyes."

She stiffened at the touch of his finger on her chin. Doran's anger flared, but he remained outwardly blasé. As she met Blix's frank stare, Emma unwillingly conceded that she might be forced to play her part in much greater detail. While it was a role she'd played convincingly before, the thought of a stranger touching her so intimately now made her stomach churn.

For the first time since entering the soldier's stronghold, her partner sounded less than congenial. "She's not my whore, Blix."

"Perfect. Then, I'll ask her myself."

The warlord cupped her cheek as he brought his lips to hers. His kiss, though quite tame by fifty-first century standards, brought back memories best forgotten. She suddenly felt trapped like she had been on Tuem.

"What do you say, little dove? Spend some time in my bed? I can sate you like no other."

Grinning, he undid the buttons of her wool jacket to expose her frilled linen shirt. With a mocking tsk, he soon exposed her breasts. Frozen in place, her throat closed in a strangled scream, leaving her with no voice to protest. When his hands followed the path of his eyes, her vision blackened. In one instant, she stood frightened and exposed, vaguely aware of a high-pitched shout; the next, she lay securely in Doran's arms, her shirt and jacket shut tight.

"Doran?"

She didn't understand why they sat on a faux stone floor. Or why a bunch of burly men in Buggoth battle armor ringed them. Or why the blond stranger with the split lip kept glancing at the little girl standing next to her. She did know, however, that her shoulder bloody well hurt, and she felt peculiarly drained.

"It's alright, Sweetheart. Don't try to stand just yet."

"Damn it, Sigurd. You could have warned me. I am not an assaulter of women."

Before she could puzzle out that the stranger referred to Doran, the young girl dressed in the achingly familiar purple robes spoke up. "He lied to protect her. She is her queen, and he her knight. It is a measure of your worth that he trusted you enough to approach at all."

Breaking out in a cold sweat, Emma stared at the seemingly young child. Although she'd never laid eyes on her before, she recognized the significance of the purple robes. Yet another colleague had been lost to the Time War, and with a pang, she allowed herself to briefly mourn the ancient Arcadian Elder she had come to respect and admire.

Ignoring the irate arms dealer, the little girl in the braids and purple clothing knelt by her side. Doran hugged her closer to his chest in an effort to shield her from the Arcadian's penetrating gaze, but he needn't have. Her memory of the time before her embarrassing blackout had returned. She realized the Elder had defused what could have quickly turned into a deadly situation.

"Do you know who I am, Lady Emissary?"

Emma managed a weak smile. "Don't you already know the answer to that, Elder?"

The girl reacted with much more mirth than her predecessor would have dared, tittering with childlike laughter. "Then, perhaps you could explain to your Knight Protector that he need not protect you from me or his friend. First Captain Blix means you no harm."

"It's alright, Doran," she assured him as he maintained his defensive posture. "This is the Elder of Arcadia."

"You've got to be kidding me," he exclaimed, and even the tense Viking relaxed. Emma smiled at her lover's unchecked reaction. Arcadians were almost as mythic as Time Lords. Orbiting around the same suns as Gallifrey, the inhabitants of Arcadia had developed many of the same abilities as their celestial neighbors, although their dedication to the Web of Time had led them down a different path. Most were true seers, and none could lie, although they were not above using silence to hide the truth. They were also an exceedingly private people, rarely leaving Arcadia except in the direst of circumstances.

Emma's breath hitched as agony pulsed through her shoulder. Before she could dismiss the pain, the Elder sternly addressed the blond warrior. "She'll need a regenerator sophisticated enough to mend bone. I suggest using your private rooms in the Green Zone since her face is known. Though the nexus grows ever more fixed, it would not be wise to tempt fate, else two queens perish instead of one."

Well used to the enigmatic nature of Arcadians, Emma didn't speculate on the Elder's pronouncement. Doran tensed, but wisely kept silent. Even Blix didn't seem perturbed by the cryptic warning, leading the Time Lord to wonder how long the Elder had been in his company.

When they reached the private hospital a mere ten minutes later, the attendant on duty greeted First Captain Blix by name. With a polite smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared, the sturdy Viking requested that his private physician meet them in his usual rooms. After pressing a few buttons on a counter console, the unflappable attendant gestured for the group to follow. Without a word, he led them through a spacious lobby bedecked with purple flora and the fifty-first century's version of a coffee shop tucked into the corner. Emma thought it looked much more like an upscale hotel than a hospital, but that impression shattered as soon as they entered Blix's usual accommodations.

The gleaming white floor twinkled with the reflection of a thousand colored lights. The flashing monitors recessed into the walls reminded her of an ancient Earth discotheque, but she grudgingly acknowledged the sophisticated technology behind the bright display. The monitor closest to her had turned an angry mauve, exposing her deficiencies for all to see. Ignoring it, she studied the screen closest to Doran. Reassured that he, at least, was the model of health, the Time Lord bit her lip and waited for the physician.

Doran wiped the sweat away from Emma's brow as he silently cursed the tissue regenerator. Blix's private physician had been forced to modify the machine to compensate for a Time Lord's denser bone structure. While the alterations proved effective in knitting the spongy tissues back together, the process was a slow and agonizing one. For the first two hours, he'd managed to distract her from the pain with some rather fantastic mental sex, but in the midst of a particularly pleasant fantasy she had firmly pushed him out of her mind as she fought the urge to scream. When she finally did cry out from the pain, the Arcadian came running from the hallway, an unnaturally grave expression on her strangely youthful face.

The former Time Agent paid little heed to the interloper as he stroked Emma's cheek. "You scream if you need to, Sweetheart. No one's going to mind. I know it's tough, but you're doing great. Just a few more hours and you'll be as good as new."

The Arcadian brusquely pushed his hand away. Without a word of explanation, she put her fingers to the Time Lord's temples. A second later, the grimace on Emma's face disappeared as her tense muscles relaxed.

"What'd you do?"

"What you could not. She won't be aware of the pain now."

Stiffening at the implied criticism, he pondered his visceral reaction to the Arcadian Elder. He'd met over a hundred species during the course of his life, and none had bothered him as much as the young seeming girl with the knowing eyes and sharp tongue. He didn't consider himself prejudiced, far from it, but some instinct told him the alien would be trouble. If nothing else, the foreknowledge she possessed tempted him more than the mythic Pandora's Box. Resolving to ignore her, he watched the ever changing monitor covering the wall next to Emma's bed.

"You are not what you seem."

He glanced sharply at the seer, not quite knowing what to make of her terse observation. "Yeah? Well, I'm not the only one, am I? Or are you going to try to convince me that you're still young enough to enjoy a good game of tag?"

"All women like the game of chase, Sir Knight. But you are correct. I am older than my outward appearance."

Turning his attention back to Emma, he wished the Arcadian gone, but she seemed blissfully unaware of his ire. Instead, she studied him as if her were some prized lab specimen waiting for dissection. After an hour crawled by and she still hadn't ended her scrutiny, he let out an aggravated sigh.

"Look, I consider myself a pretty confident guy, but even I get self-conscious. Either spit it out or leave or both, 'cause I've got to tell you the evil eye is starting to get annoying."

She laughed, apparently amused by his temper. Doran counted to ten in as many languages as he could while he reminded himself of all the reasons he didn't hit little girls, even little girls who might be older than he. Before he could start on ancient Pashto, the Arcadian walked calmly out of the room, but not before pausing at the door to make one final pronouncement.

"If we don't all die in the Time War, I look forward to meeting you again, Sir Knight. You truly are an enigma."

A look of smug satisfaction crept upon his face to be quickly replaced by a sickly frown. A seer used to dealing in absolutes had said the dreaded word 'if'. So, the Arcadian couldn't foresee the outcome of the Time War any more than Emma could. Suddenly, his wife's theory that the Time Lords might be forced to self-destruct in a noble blaze of glory didn't seem so farfetched.

Kneeling by her bed, he smoothed Emma's tangled auburn hair. Gallifrey could go straight into the abyss for all he cared. He would kill the Dalek to give her peace, and then he would take them to a place far enough away where no one, Time Lord or Time Agent, would ever think to look.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Flexing the fingers of her right hand, Emma considered the irony of fate. Months ago, she had walked into Tempus Tor with all the confidence of a Pyroville high on Krillitane oil. Now, she skulked in the shadows praying to the Lady Time that she not shame herself by turning tail and running to the nearest space hopper. She'd called herself a coward more than once since her blackout on Avarice.

Doran, however, refused to do the same. In fact, he assured her time and again that fear rather than reckless cockiness was a natural, healthier reaction to everything she had endured. Waiting at the door of the armory, she wasn't so sure, but the time for debate had passed. They were seconds away from blowing up the storage facility and beginning their assault on the blackened heart of the Time Agency.

When the first grenade ignited the plasma weapons deep within the armory, instinct overrode thought. Emma braced herself against the corridor as the force of the explosions rocked the building. Shouting out Doran's name, she made certain he hadn't been injured before racing to the empty lift two corridors over.

A smaller grenade destroyed the passenger cage and propelled toxic gas throughout the shaft. The sound of a similar explosion to the south brought a relieved grin to her face. A sonic blaster fresh from the factory at Villengard gripped in her hand, she sprinted towards their rendezvous point, determined not to be left behind.

As soon as she entered the archives, another blaster pressed against her temple. Spinning out of the way, she pushed down the hand of her would-be assailant. "No shooting me, Doran, I don't have time to regenerate right now."

He chuckled as he quickly pulled her into his arms. "Sweetheart, you'd be nothing but pieces, and I don't think you can regenerate from that."

"Rassilon, but the sonic blaster is an ugly weapon. It reminds me of a De-Mat gun, except that erases whatever it hits from the time stream. . . ." Emma doubled over as she realized what she had said. Is that what he had created—a dematerialization weapon powerful enough to unmake Gallifrey? Was that why the High Lord President no longer displayed the Key of Rassilon?

"Emma? Emma? Sweetheart, I need you to focus."

Straightening, she shoved that thought to her subconscious for later inspection. "Sorry, it won't happen again. I'm alright, really." She said the latter as his eyes raked her face to search for any weakness hidden there. When he didn't look convinced, she hastily added, "I'm fine. Really, Doran. Just a stray thought about the De-Mat gun. I've put it out of my mind."

"Good," he answered with a false cheer that didn't reach his eyes. "'Cause I've got to tell you, I've gotten used to that face again. Try to keep it today. Okay, Sweetheart?"

She tossed a few grenades towards the data information terminals just so she wouldn't have to reply. Unrepentant, she grabbed his wrist to teleport them to the top floor. She felt the all too familiar disorientation from exposure to the raw Time Vortex before falling to her knees in the middle of the temporal control room.

Their counterfeit blue uniforms confused the technicians for only a second. But he only needed a second. Doran fired at the critical temporal data core she had damaged on her first rampage through Tempus Tor. The sonic blaster left a precise hole in the middle of the mainframe, shorting out the entire system with a few satisfying sparks. Not bothering to stand, Emma lobbed a flash grenade towards the dozen terrified technicians, stunning them before they could draw their weapons. Only then did she accept Doran's hand.

She stood on shaky legs to survey the damage. The data core was beyond repair. A quick check of the mission logs assured her that no agent had been sent on assignment since their first trip to headquarters a (relative) week prior. She'd expected to feel jubilation after destroying the Time Agency, but the sight of the dozen technicians sprawled on the floor in front of her tempered her exultation. Last time, she'd killed without a thought. This time, she took out a thin purple cylinder from the front pocket of her blue jumpsuit. Pressing the button, she watched in satisfaction as the technicians lying on the floor were encased in sticky, stringy goo.

"Nasty, remind me never to get on your bad side."

She flashed her husband a wicked grin. "What? Never had sex with a Yoog-ki?"

"Getting stuck to my partner for several days isn't really my style. I'm more of a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy."

She pointed the empty cylinder towards him, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. "**Was** a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. I'd never leave you, Sweetheart."

"Better."

Grinning, she tossed the container to the floor. As it clattered to the ground, an alarm began to sound throughout the building. Emma swallowed a lump of terror as Doran pulled her into the hallway that led to the executive suites.

"We need to interrogate One and Two. They'll know the location of the Dalek. If we're really lucky, One took advantage of the chaos last time and killed it herself."

"I doubt she did anything so sensible. She's arrogant enough to think she could control it."

The whine of a laser pistol drowned out his reply. Another flash grenade quieted the corridor. Warily, the two stepped over still bodies to approach the opulent reception area that marked the seat of power for the Time Agency's upper echelons.

Upon reaching the empty foyer, Doran let out a string of curses. Over the blaring alarm, however, Emma heard what sounded like a thud coming from one of the rooms farther down the hall. Signaling her intent, she led her partner on a methodical sweep through each room. Inside the last office, they discovered a familiar face cowering underneath his desk.

"Hello, Two. Didn't peg you as spineless. Or did you drop some spare change on the floor?"

Doran's dig pulled the sweaty man to his senses. "That madwoman you brought last time slaughtered Upper Management! One and I are the only left! I thought she'd come back to finish the job."

Emma rolled her eyes. She found it impossible to fear the balding little man blubbering on the floor. "That was the Daleks' doing, not mine, you idiot. Although, I did kill everyone in the temporal control room. And, the Ogrons who got in my way. And, the Daleks, mustn't forget the Daleks."

He gaped at her, his jaw hanging open like a broken window. Only after Doran mentioned that they intended to kill the last Dalek did he appear capable of speech.

"You're a Time Lord," he breathed, his expression teetering between horror and awe. "One was so sure, but you kept silent for so long that I had my doubts." Abruptly, the agent's demeanor changed. Ignoring her completely, he coolly addressed Doran. "What did she offer you for your help? Your brother's life? I swear we can give you Gray seconds after the raid. You can have your baby brother back, just like he was before."

The sonic blaster shook in Emma's hand. She could no longer sense her partner's emotions, and found the tic that had begun just under his left eye impossible to interpret. She wanted to kill the bastard before Doran listened to any more of his lies, but couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.

Her partner's lack of protest emboldened the other man. Standing confidently, he pointed at Emma. "Think of what we could accomplish if we unraveled the mystery of regeneration. We could be gods among men. I know of a medical facility on Bleak that specializes in vivisection. They'd pay a fortune to get their hands on a Time Lord, especially a female.

A neat square hole appeared where the Agent Two's torso had been. Holstering his weapon, Doran grabbed a nearby chair to smash the senior agent's head. Emma reeled under the burden of his fierce rage. In all her days, she'd never been bombarded by such raw emotion. Their eyes met, and his fury immediately banked, replaced by devoted anxiety. She drew in a steadying breath as he blinked stupidly before dropping the bloody chair.

"I'd find Gray if I could," she began, but he pulled her to his chest, smothering her apology before it could properly begin.

"I'd never let anyone hurt you," he whispered into her hair. "You have to believe me. Gray's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it right now. I know that. I just hate the way he tried to manipulate me."

After few moments of comforting her in his arms, he stiffened. "Hell, we still don't know where to find the Dalek."

Pulling out of his embrace, Emma repressed a shudder as she caught a glimpse of the mangled remains on the floor. "We should check the artifact room. If nothing else, I owe the Time Lord trapped in that hourglass my life. Besides, if the Dalek recognizes the Seal of Rassilon, it won't let it out of its site."

"And, if it's not there?"

"You'll program your Vortex Manipulator to track One," she answered with more confidence than she felt. "I should be able to get her bio signature from her personnel records."

Without waiting for his agreement, Emma took the lead. Choosing her path from memory, she carefully led him through the empty corridors. The deserted hallways unnerved her as they ran towards the hidden treasure trove. Either the Agency had been left to operate with nothing more than a minimal repair crew or they were about to walk straight into a trap. Neither scenario boded well for their mission.

Doran sprinted past her as soon as he saw the entrance to the cavernous artifact room. No shots rang out as he cautiously stepped inside. Warning sirens continued to blare ineffectively in the distance. A step behind, Emma was a second too slow to detect the trap.

"Wait," she warned as he rushed forward to claim their prize. Heedless, he touched the hourglass, and a containment field flared around him. Trying her best not to panic, the Time Lord ignored Doran's wild gestures to take careful aim at the corner of the force field. Before she could fire a shot, however, the sharp tip of a sword pressed against her spine.

"Put the blaster down, ginger, or I'll remove the oxygen from lover boy's prison."

The sonic blaster slipped through her fingers. That voice, the one of her nightmares, the voice that could paralyze her with a single word—this wasn't a flashback; the voice was real, here, now. Dazedly, she looked to Doran; she couldn't confront the face of that horrible voice just yet. The man she loved slammed against the force field in a futile effort to reach her. His shouts were muffled, but his anguish flowed through the barrier to settle like a shroud around her.

Putrid, fetid breath blew against her neck. The world dimmed. She existed in a gray nothingness occasionally punctured by the slash of pain and the froth of terror. Retreating from both, she clung to the numbing haze that encased her.

An explosion of seething fury shattered her comforting oblivion. Reality intruded with a horde of stinging, shallow cuts. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a protective ball, but the demon of her nightmares had her pinned beneath him. With vicious glee he sliced again through the thick fabric of her jumpsuit, leaving a thin trail of blood to run down her left thigh.

She sought to disappear, to surrender to the welcome void that had sheltered her, but Doran's rage blocked her retreat. Turning her head, she watched her husband ram the containment field again and again. No matter how futile, he still fought.

He still fought-and so must she.

She looked straight into the dead eyes of the man kneeling on top of her—man, not demon. Wrenching away, she kicked with all her might, connecting solidly with the Time Agent's unprotected groin. Before he could react with anything more than a grunt, Emma picked up her sonic blaster and took aim at the far corner of the containment field. Hands trembling, she took the shot.

Doran ran out of his prison to encircle her in his arms. After a tight squeeze to reassure them both, he pulled back to examine the nicks and cuts bleeding onto the tattered remnants of her clothing.

"You're okay. You're okay," he promised as he pressed his palm against a deep gash on her hip.

She shook too violently to answer. Now that it was over, the brief surge of courage deserted her, leaving her empty and bereft. Yet with every gentle touch, Doran bolstered her. As he bandaged her cuts, his relief, love and pride seeped into her skin until finally, she found her voice.

"You didn't let me give up."

Tenderly, he pushed aside a strand of hair that had come undone from her braid. "Of course not. You're a fighter, remember?"

"Sickening," the downed Time Agent groaned, shattering her tenuous peace. "What are you now, Six? Her fucking pet? Did you tell her you got your lover killed last time you were here?"

Taking a purple cylinder out of her torn pocket, Emma showered Ninety-Six with the strong, sticky goo. Unfortunately, she failed to seal his mouth.

"One set you up, you know. She wanted the Agency destroyed. There's only five of us now, and she manipulated you into killing Two. Hell, that artifact isn't even real. She took it and the Dalek to Tuem."

"Why?" Doran demanded while Emma irritably knocked the hourglass off its plinth. She didn't need to examine it to know it was nothing but a cheap copy of the original. No Time Lord consciousness had attempted to breach her mental shields. The sand that spilled from the broken casing was nothing more than sand.

The blond's feral grin sent a frizzle of fear down her spine. The smug brute knew something, something so momentous that it gave him the advantage even as he lay glued to the floor. Clutching the empty pedestal, the traumatized Time Lord braced herself to hear of a new, fiendish Dalek plot.

The truth was so much worse.

"One doesn't need the Agency any more. Why bother with Time Agents when she has her own little pet and a TARDIS at her disposal?"

For the second time that day, Emma's world went gray.


End file.
